


the cost of a thing

by quiettewandering



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Depressed Castiel (Supernatural), Fake Marriage, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Human Castiel, Jealous Dean Winchester, M/M, Mutual Pining, Protective Dean Winchester, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, Touch-Starved Castiel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-08
Updated: 2019-04-13
Packaged: 2019-07-27 22:08:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 27
Words: 74,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16228286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quiettewandering/pseuds/quiettewandering
Summary: 16 months ago, Cas became human.12 months ago, Cas left the bunker and a broken-hearted Dean behind.Now they must work a case together, where married couples are dying mysterious deaths and the only way to earn the neighbors' trust is by pretending to be married. Slowly, Dean finds that he loves being in a relationship with Cas, fake or not, and Cas finds his loneliness retreating, despite the harsh reality looming right around the corner. As Dean and Cas navigate this fake, but all too real, relationship, can they find the monster that is on a mysteriously motivated killing spree before it’s too late?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> hey guys! back with another destiel longfic whoooo~
> 
> this'll just be me having fun, no obligations, no care in the world about how tropey this story is - just me having a good time. so I hope you all enjoy!
> 
> shoutout to heidi for being a saint and waiting literally years for this fic i love you and i am sorry
> 
> fan creations associated with this fic: 
> 
> 1\. @malevolent-dean made the most beautiful [edit](http://malevolent-dean.tumblr.com/post/183265937522/the-cost-of-a-thing-by-the-brilliant-wanderingcas) for this fic. please go check it out!
> 
> 2\. @idjit made this AMAZING [gifset](https://wanderingcas.tumblr.com/post/182947195529/idjit-the-price-of-anything-is-the-amount-of-life). send her lots of love!
> 
> 3\. @idjit and I made[a meme set](https://wanderingcas.tumblr.com/post/183208398624/so-idjit-and-i-made-the-cost-of-a-thing-memes) for this story. it's silly. have fun.
> 
> 4\. here is [my playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/12120137354/playlist/6jGMQw96Tzb9Epwr6wFXkA?si=yYJqJCUJSqiHKaJoRil-lw) that i used to write for this story

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “The cost of a thing is the amount of what I will call life which is required to be exchanged for it, immediately or in the long run.” 
> 
> -Henry David Thoreau, Walden

* * *

 

“The cost of a thing is the amount of what I will call life which is required to be exchanged for it, immediately or in the long run.”

-Henry David Thoreau, Walden

* * *

 

Dean squints into the afternoon light at the gated community before him. There are rows and rows of houses; all looking more or less the same. A quintessential newer development neighborhood, unassumingly standing before him.

Slowly, Dean turns his head toward his brother, giving him a murderous expression. Sam innocently looks up from his phone.

“Sam,” Dean says, warningly.

“Dean,” Sam replies, pleasantly.

“What kind of Stepford Wives hell did you bring me to?” Dean’s hand flings toward the idyllic neighborhood.

“The gate’s open, Dean.”

Grumbling, Dean slowly urges the Impala forward, and around the winding corner. “When you told me about this case, you failed to mention that it’s in goddamn suburbia.”

Sam rolls his eyes as he taps at his phone screen. “Dean, I told you that this case is in a suburban development.”

“Yeah, a suburb, not a scene out of _A Wrinkle in Time._ ”

Sam finally looks up in order to frown at Dean. “You’ve never even read that book. How would you know that scene if you haven’t read that book?”

“Just tell me where to turn, smartass.”

“Next left on Peach Street.” Sam holds up a hand as Dean sputters out the name. “I _know_ it’s corny, Dean, yes.”

Dean whacks the turn signal and expels a loud breath in the same motion. “I’m just sayin’, I think we’re gonna get murdered by the residents before we even smoke out the damn monster.” He eases Baby around another corner. “What makes you think the murders here are even a case, and not just some disgruntled house dad?”

Sam’s fingers fly on his phone; out of the corner of his eye, Dean can see that Sam has pulled up a police report. Probably from hacking into their database.

“‘Victim has multiple puncture wounds on neck, a half inch apart,’” Sam reads aloud. “‘Victim’s blood found on the neck.’”

“So, a vampire,” Dean says with an outstretched hand.

Raising a finger in the air to call for silence, Sam continues, “‘No evidence of significant blood loss. Death is by either asphyxiation, otherwise unknown.’”

“Whoa, back up. Not a vampire—and _maybe_ death by suffocation?”

Sam shrugs. “My guess? Someone tried to make it look like a vampire.”

Dean gives Sam a side glance, asking, “Why the hell—”

“Got me, man. And I’ve never seen a coroner’s report say “maybe” on a cause of death—usually it’s definitive, or unknown.”

“Huh.” Dean stops the Impala at a stop sign. “You’re right, that is really weird.”

“See? A case. And definitely a supernatural one.”

“Okay, fine, you’re a genius. Now which way do I go?”

“Straight ahead.”

Dean turns the corner; a thought occurs. “How did you find out about this case, anyway? Somethin’ like that should have been in the headlines, and I didn’t see anything.”

Sam clears his throat. “I have a contact.”

“Oh yeah? Which one?”

“Just… a contact.”

Dean gives his brother a suspicious glance. Sam suddenly seems uncomfortable. Nonetheless, Dean drives on.

There’s a culdesac at the end of the street where the line of large houses stop. The street is empty of people, except for one lone figure on a driveway about fifty yards away from them.

Dean squints. There’s something about the way that person is standing there, and the outfit…

“Son of a _bitch_!” he roars, slamming the brakes with full force.

Sam jolts forward, phone scattering to the floor. “Dean, what—”

Dean remains frozen, staring at the figure ahead, white knuckles clutching the steering wheel.

Cas looks different, yet the same: slightly hunched shoulders (not new), a leather jacket (that’s new), and scuffed jeans with equally scuffed work-boots (what is he, a lumberjack?). He doesn’t look like he belongs; then again, Cas has never been quite a part of this world.

“Sam, what in the _hell_ did you do?” Dean manages to growl through clenched teeth.

Sam winces, running a nervous hand through his hair. “Look, I was going to tell you—”

“What is he _doing_ here, Sam?”

“He’s… my contact, Dean. He told me about the case—”

Dean moves, then, whipping around the seat to stare at his brother in shock. “What the hell d’ya mean, he told you? He’s _hunting_?”

“Uh. Yeah.”

“And you’ve been—what, you’ve been _talking_ to him? How?”

Sam shifts uncomfortably. “He… he gave me his number. Before he left.”

“He gave you his number,” Dean repeats woodenly. At Sam’s small nod, Dean growls, “Fuck this. We’re leaving,” and pulls the Impala in reverse.

“No, Dean, listen!” Sam’s hand shoots out to grab the clutch. “I should have told you, okay? I’m sorry. But I knew you’d never agree if I did, and I just want you to… hear him out.”

Dean is projecting daggers through his eyes. “Sam. Let. Go.”

“No. Just give it a chance—”

“Why the hell would I give it a chance?”

“Because, Dean, I’m sick of watching you mope around the bunker over this whole situation, and not doing anything about it!”

Dean snaps his jaw shut. He stares ahead at Cas' back: at the familiar black hair and the familiar tightness in Dean’s chest. He hates the way that his hand instinctively goes to the front of his jeans pocket, where he feels the achingly familiar crinkle of paper.

Taking his hand away slowly, Sam dares to venture, “One hour, okay? Just one hour to explain, maybe let him say his piece.”

Dean breathes in, and out. Tries to dissociate from the strong urge to put the car in drive and get to that man on the driveway as quickly as he can—and the equally strong urge to put as much distance between them as possible.

He doesn’t even look that different, after all these months.

Roughly pushing the shift into drive, Dean jerks the car forward. “One hour,” he grits out, “then I’m getting the fuck out of here.”

*

Despite hearing the telltale rumble of the Impala’s old engine before it even rounded the corner, Cas’ stomach still does wild flips as he sees the sleek black car come into view.

He bites the inside of his cheek: a nervous human habit he’s picked up since he’s fallen. He bites it when his eyes connect with Dean’s through the windshield; bites harder when he sees the Impala screech to a halt in the middle of the street. Sam is gesticulating wildly, while Dean glares between Sam and Cas’ direction. Dean’s clearly caught off guard.

Cas’ heart climbs into his throat as he realizes: Sam hadn’t even told Dean that he would be here.

His breathing doesn’t resume to normal until he sees the Impala drive toward him once again, and whip into the driveway. Sam is out of the car first, coming to Cas with a wide, welcoming smile.

Cas lets himself be hugged—smothered, rather—against the taller man’s broad chest. Cas’ face is pressed into Sam’s shoulder, and he can smell the familiar bunker-Winchester-scent. “It’s so good to see you,” he hears Sam exclaim from above.

Cas pulls back. He hopes that he’s smiling as he says, “You too, Sam. Was the address difficult to find?”

“No, no, it was simple.” Sam opens his mouth as if to say more, but Dean has slammed the car door shut, coming to stand next to Sam. His hands are shoved into his jean pockets, and he’s glaring at his shoes.

Cas can only stare, voice temporarily stolen, as Sam impatiently elbows Dean in the side.

Eyes flickering everywhere but on Cas’ face, Dean grunts out a simple, “Hey.”

“Hello, Dean,” Cas manages to softly reply.

Sam waits for another beat of uncomfortable silence, then claps his hands together. “Well, let’s go inside, huh? Then Cas can update us on the case.”

“If there even is a case,” Dean grumbles. He locks the driver’s door.

Cas remains where he is as the brothers walk up the porch to the front door of the house. His feet are permanently planted to the concrete. He feels incapable of anything but watching the back of Dean’s coat, the way it wrinkles as he moves; the new weighted slope to his shoulders.

There's a heaviness in Cas’ chest as he watches the setting sun catch Dean's hair, giving it an auburn shimmer.

Sam’s voice calling for Cas breaks his reverie. He follows Sam’s beckoning gesture up the porch and through the door.

“This is pretty nice,” Sam says, his voice booming with the emptiness of the house.

Cas follows Sam’s gaze around the open-plan living room, the high ceilings, the kitchen to the right of the entrance. Cas nods distractedly, not having much experience with human homes to compare it to.

“So, what, we trespassing?” Dean asks as he opens the double-door fridge, inspecting the inside.

“Borrowing it,” Sam clarifies.

“From another hunter,” adds Cas.

“Who we borrowing it from?” Dean asks Sam.

“That guy, Rudy, who daylights as a realtor. This house is a model home; he set it up for us to live in for a couple of weeks.”

“Who the hell is Rudy?” Dean asks.

“We helped him with a haunting in Michigan once.”

Dean grunts and throws the fridge door closed. “No food in this goddamn place.”

“It’s a model home, Dean,” Sam explains.

Dean leans over the kitchen island, elbows propped, hands folded together. He shoots Sam a glare. “Fifty eight minutes,” he says.

Sighing, Sam walks to the kitchen, knuckles tapping on the grey countertop. “Why don’t you fill us in on the case, Cas?”

Cas hesitantly gathers his stack of files from the opposite counter and spreads it before the Winchesters. “There’s been four killings, so far,” he begins, pushing the case files toward them. “There isn’t much to say about the connection between all the victims, apart from the fact that they lived in this neighborhood.”

“Well, that’s a pretty big connection,” Sam says. He picks up a case file and examines it with narrowed eyes.

“None of the victims knew each other; the neighborhood is quite large. And the locations of the killings were different each time.”

“You mean where the bodies were dumped,” Dean says, frowning at the files.

Cas says, carefully, “The police reports say that it’s where the killings occurred.”

“Well, police reports are usually wrong in these cases,” Dean shoots back. He finally makes eye contact with Cas; it isn’t pleasant.

Cas’ heart twinges as he realizes this is the first time Dean has acknowledged his presence. “Perhaps,” he says, eyes flickering away, “but strong evidence points to it.”

“What’s the evidence, Cas?” Sam asks.

“Well,” Cas sighs, crossing his arms, “I suppose, the lack of evidence. That’s what is incomplete about the police report; and what’s worth going down to the station and investigating.”

Dean nods, chewing on his lip and staring down at the countertop. “Makes sense.”

Cas frowns at the top of Dean’s head. His stomach suddenly hurts.

“What was the time between the victims disappearing and their bodies being found?” Sam asks, flipping through the papers.

“A week, roughly,” Cas says. “The police theorize this to mean that whoever is killing these people are simply keeping them hostage until they decide to finally murder them.”

“So a feeding? Like a djinn?”

Cas shakes his head. “The bodies didn’t exhibit the typical signs of djinn captivity.”

“So what—”

There’s a rapid knocking on the door. Their heads whip toward the noise.

“Who the hell? I thought you said this house was set, Cas,” Dean hisses.

Cas pulls the case files into his arms and shoves them into an empty kitchen drawer. “I assure you, I did not invite anyone.”

“Well we should probably… answer it?” Sam says with a shrug.

Dean shrugs back. Cas extends a hand toward the door, inviting Sam to execute his plan.

Sam sighs. “I have to do everything myself…” His footsteps echo across the house as he walks to the door, leaving Cas and Dean behind in the kitchen.

Opening the door reveals a very blonde, very excited woman practically rocking back and forth on her heels.

“Hello!” she chimes. “Are you our new neighbor?”

“Oh,” Sam says, “I—”

“I just wanted to stop by and welcome you to the neighborhood! We haven’t had a new neighbor around here in awhile, everyone just seems to come in here and like it so much that they never sell! Or they can’t afford to,” she adds with a loud laugh, her head tilted back.

Cas and Dean exchange a look.

Sam tries again. “I—”

“Oh, and this is such a _nice_ house!” the woman exclaims, poking her head through the doorframe. “You have an open floor plan, I’m so jealous! Bob—that’s my husband—he’s useless at remodeling, and I told him to hire someone to open up our walls because for god’s sake there’s _no_ light in there, but he said—”

Dean, rolling his eyes, says very loudly, “Hey Sam, who is it?”

The woman gasps. She tries more desperately to crane her neck around the door. “Oh, there’s more of you?”

“Uh, yeah,” Sam says. He holds the door open wider. He gestures back at Dean and Cas, looking shell-shocked. “That’s my brother, Dean.”

Dean gives a single, sharp wave to the woman. “Pleasure.”

“Oh, lovely,” the woman titters.

“And this is…” Sam pauses as he gestures to Cas.

Cas stares back at him, confused as to why Sam has seemingly forgotten his name, after knowing him for just shy of a decade.

“This is Cas,” Sam finally says. “He’s, uh…”

He falters, his eyes flickering back and forth from Dean to Cas. “He’s my… brother-in-law.”

The blonde woman frowns. “Brother-in-law?”

Cas sneaks a look at Dean: he appears torn between committing murder or sprinting from the room.

Sam straightens. He says, very gravely, “Yes. He’s my brother’s husband.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> posting schedule is whenever grad school allows! (hopefully every week or two is my goal) but I have had a pretty good track record of finishing fics in the past few years, so never fear!
> 
> any feedback is appreciated <3


	2. Interlude; nov. 2012

Sam’s not an idiot. He knows that his brother and Cas have a... _complicated_ relationship, to say the least. He’s witnessed them dance around each other for years, both of them always managing to narrowly avoid expressing their real feelings for each other.

Sam has tried to ask them about it. But Cas always looked mildly horrified whenever Sam tried to hint at it. And Dean always inevitably blew up and left the room even whenever Sam used 'Cas' and 'feelings' in the same sentence.

Because of all this, it took Sam awhile to get the courage to ask about it.

It wasn’t until the apocalypse was tied up nice and tight, and he was back from the Cage, that he dared to approach the subject. They were eating dinner at the bunker in between hunts, and Dean seemed pretty content with his beer and take-out pizza and the entire situation, so Sam hedged the question he’d been waiting to ask:

“Dean… when Zachariah sent you to the future, to 2014. Do you want to talk about it?”

Dean stopped, mid-gulp, his lips still poised on the opening of the beer bottle. As he set down the bottle, Sam saw that crinkle between Dean’s eyebrows form, the one he usually gets when he’s upset. “Now why the hell would you bring something like that up now?” he asked.

Fiddling with his pizza crust on the plate, Sam sighed. “I dunno, I... “ He wiped his hands of crumbs, summoning the courage. Emotional talks with Dean typically didn’t end peacefully. “It’s just something I’ve been thinking about lately. That, and how pissed you got when Cas asked what weed was… It made me remember some things you’ve told me about it.”

Dean huffed, draining the rest of his beer and standing. He gathered their plates. “Look, it’s not a future that happened, obviously. We're a year away from 2014, and Cas isn’t even close to being a shot-up human hippie and you’re not Lucifer’s meatsuit and the world is obviously not ending. Problem solved, right?”

Sam trailed after him to the kitchen. “Not really, Dean. Whatever you saw there… it seems to have spooked you pretty bad. I mean you can’t even have Cas ask a question about weed without you freaking out. He wasn’t even asking to _try_ it and you were acting… I don't know, weird.”

“I wasn’t ‘freaking out’,” Dean said with sarcastic air-quotes. “He was just askin’ stupid questions.”

“Dean.” Sam stared his brother down, a silent urge for him to quit the bullshit.

“It’s like I told you, man." Dean assumes a defensive posture of arms crossed over his chest. “Lucifer was ridin’ you and Cas was stoned out of his mind, leavin’ future-me to fight the good fight with whatever humans were left. It was bloody, it was war. It was fucked up. What else do you want me to say?”

“I just wanted to know if you felt like… talking about anything.”

Dean narrowed his eyes. “ _Anything_ ,” he repeated dubiously.

Sam’s not an idiot. He knew that there was something Dean wasn’t saying; a vital detail being excluded from the narrative. Call it brotherly intuition.

Sam sighed. “You're really gonna make me say it?"

"Yeah, because I don't know what the hell you're talking about."

"Anything that happened with... you know... with Cas."

Dean tensed. "No, I don't." He turned his back, suddenly became very busy washing the only two dirty dishes in the sink. 

Sam had expected this. Dean was always cagey when it came to this subject.

Walking to the counter next to Dean, Sam leaned against it and crossed his arms, feigning thoughtfulness. “You said he was a stoner,” he said over the harsh running of water, “and that he stuck by you in battle, despite being messed up. Also, he was pretty much human; and had been for a while. Right?”

“Yup.” Dean snaps the dish towel in the air before putting it on the counter for dishes to dry on.

“And he recognized that you were the… _present_ -you right away.”

Shutting off the water, Dean faced him and glared. “Is there a point to this?”

Sam shrugged nonchalantly. “Nope, just… wanting to get the whole story.” He glanced up at Dean, who was chewing at his bottom lip and staring down at the lone dish in the sink. Sam waited for a few moments.

“It was fucking weird. Is that what you want me to say, Sam?” Dean commenced to washing the last dish, scraping cheese into the garbage below the sink. “He didn’t even act like our Cas. Even when he talked, it was just… he was a stranger. Being human made him totally goddamn different.” Dean absently scrubbed the dish. “I got on him—our Cas, I mean—about the weed thing because the apocalypse is done and all that shit, but that future could still happen, ya know? Maybe Cas is one of those angels that could be a crazy hippy stoner, human or not. I dunno.”

“And that scares you because…”

“It doesn’t _scare_ me.” He wiped his hands on a towel before anxiously scrubbing a hand over his mouth. “I don’t want him to change into that, I guess.”

“Because you didn’t like the Cas in the future?”

Dean shook his head. “Look, man. What you gotta understand is that the Cas in the future was a sex-crazed horndog that liked to have orgies in his cabin. And he smelled like he hadn’t taken a bath since he was born, _and_ he acted like a looney toon the whole time. It wasn’t Cas. And what happened, when I saw him….” Dean stopped mid-sentence, glaring at the floor. “It doesn’t matter, okay? Whatever crazy shit happened in that future, it didn’t mean anything.”

There it was. They were finally circling the crux of the issue. Sam leaned forward. “What didn’t mean anything?” he asked softly.

“He just…” Dean’s eyes became distant. Some scene played behind his eyes that Sam couldn’t see.

A blink and a shudder—and that distant look was gone. Dean threw the towel onto the counter and huffed out a sigh. “Well, doesn’t matter, right? It’s never gonna happen anyway. Lucifer is locked up and Cas is fully angel and never gonna be a human. So just drop it, Sammy.”

Sam sighed at Dean’s retreating back; he could see his brother's shoulders heavier with the weight of whatever disturbing scene that future brought for Dean. Sam expected that now he’ll never know what it was.

When Sam looks back on that time, it's almost a pleasant memory. Having the time to eat dinner with Dean; having the opportunity to understand the past, to understand his brother; maybe even help heal him of it.

Until the trials began;

then everything went to hell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so there's going to be a series of flashbacks throughout the fic that tie in with the main story. this is kind of a bonus chapter, because usually i'll be posting a chapter of the main story, then a flashback chapter right after! so enjoy this quick and very short update ;) 
> 
> as usual - please let me know what you think!! I absolutely love hearing your guys' thoughts.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation....But it is a characteristic of wisdom not to do desperate things.”  
> -Henry David Thoreau, Walden

It takes far too long to get rid of the perky blonde neighbor—she keeps hounding them about a barbeque happening that night that she wants them to attend. Sam finally shuts the door on her cheerful “See you soon, now!” and leans against the door, looking exhausted from the whole interaction.

Dean gives him no time to recover. Grabbing Sam by the arm, he asks, “What the _hell_ was that about?”

Sam has the decency to look momentarily ashamed. “Well… it sounds like she invited us to a barbeque.”

Dean closes his eyes, searching for calm, reminding himself that killing his younger brother would undo all of his hard work protecting him over the years. “You _know_ what I mean, Sam. You just—” he gestures to Cas, who’s standing there looking like he wishes the ground would swallow him, and then to the door. “Did you even bother to _think_ with that fancy Ivy-League-educated brain of yours?”

“I find I have to agree,” Cas intones. “This…“false marriage” plan seems rushed at best.”

Sam looks at Cas far more apologetically than he did to Dean. “I know, Cas, I’m sorry. It seemed like a good idea in the moment, I just—”

“In what universe is it a good idea?” Dean sputters.

“Listen,” Sam says, pushing Dean’s hand off his arm, “this was never going to work unless we blended in somehow, right? This was going to be a plan I proposed anyway, it just ended up… getting ahead of me.”

“No shit.”

Sam throws his hands in the air. “Fine, Dean, I’m sorry—is that what you want me to say? The damage is done, though, so now we need a plan.”

Shaking his head, Dean lets out a gusty sigh. There’s an interesting patch of dirt on the wood-panel floor that Dean would rather stare at than looking at Cas, and what his reaction to all of this is. He’d rather not know what Cas is thinking, having to potentially pretend to be with Dean in … that way. Dean would rather miss the look of disgust. He hastily shoves it out of his mind and locks the mental door.

“I’m not asking you and Cas to go get matching polos or make out in public,” Sam says, trying to placate. “Just… do it to gain the neighbors’ trust, okay?”

“Whatever, to all this,” Dean says gruffly. “I say we should just canvas the neighborhood, ask some questions at the station, figure this out, then get the hell out of dodge.”

“Perhaps it would help to meet the neighbors,” Cas agrees. “The few I have met so far seem… odd. They were also quite wary of me.”

“Maybe they were ‘wary’ of you because of that biker’s jacket, ever think of that?” Dean gestures to Cas’ oversized leather jacket to emphasize his point.

“The woman who managed the store insisted that this jacket would make me look successfully intimidating,” Cas declares.

“Well, it’s successfully _somethin_ ’, all right,” Dean mutters.

“Either way,” Sam cuts in with a placating raise of his hands, “you and Cas should go meet the neighbors. Together.”

Shaking his head, Dean begins, “Like _hell_ I’m going with—” At Sam’s urgent look, he clicks his mouth shut. Dean feels Cas’ eyes on the back of his neck.

“The victims were married,” Cas says, the frown in his voice. “At least, the majority of them. If anything, pretending to be a couple can help draw the monster in, as bait.”

A rough laugh unbiddenly pushes its way out of Dean. “Oh, and I suppose you’ll offer yourself up as the bait, huh?”

Cas narrows his eyes. “I hadn’t thought that far ahead.”

“Well, you should do it—would be _real_ original,” Dean drawls sarcastically.

“What example do you suggest I follow, Dean?” Cas asks. “Should I use your countless reckless decisions and penchant for self-sacrifice as a template?”

“ _Guys_ ,” Sam says, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“See, Sam?” Dean sputters, throwing a hand in the air toward Cas. “How the hell is this going to work?”

“You’re already bickering like a married couple,” Sam says, rubbing the sides of his temple. “And giving me a headache like one, too.”

Cas avoids Dean’s eyes. Dean swipes his keys off the table and stalks toward the door. “You know what? Fuck this.”

Sam sighs. “Dean—”

“No,” Dean barks, a finger jabbed at him. “ _You_ figure out this case, _you_ fake-marry Cas, _you_ sort out this whole mess. I’m going to the nearest bar in this shady town and going to forget any of this shit ever happened.” He pointedly avoids Cas’ very blue, very penalizing eyes before he twists to the doorway.

The fall air has gotten crisper in the last half-hour since Dean has left it. He breathes in sharply, letting the cold shock his senses. The crushing feeling in his chest has subsided, now that he’s not in the same room as Cas.

“Dean!” Sam can be heard rather than seen, the sound of his feet hitting the pavement as he runs after Dean. Sam intercepts him before Dean can even jam his key into the front door of the Impala.

A hand pushes against Dean’s chest. “Dean, let’s just talk about this.”

With a growl: “Sam—”

“One hour, you said I had one hour, remember?”

Dean lets out an exasperated groan. “Jesus, _fine._ ” He slumps against Baby. “You’re a shit sometimes, you know that?”

“Dean.” Sam waits until Dean has finally looked up. “Despite what you think, I believe that this’ll be good for you and Cas.”

“Do you even have a little bit of sense left in your brain?” Dean asks. He gestures, a sharp and final thing, toward the house. “Me and him, man, we…” He feels bile rise in his throat as he realizes what he was about to say. The words echo in his brain like a macabre chant:

_Me and him—It's a pretty messed-up situation we got going._

“What, Dean?” Sam asks gently.

Dean shakes out his shoulders. Takes a breath. “Nothing. It just won’t work. You don’t know the whole story.”

“Then _tell me_ the whole story.”

Dean’s eyes flicker away. He focuses instead on the way the falling sunlight catches the huge bay window of the model home—it’s bright enough so that he can’t see if Cas is watching.

“I don’t want to, Sammy,” he says, defeated. “Not yet.”

Sam runs a hand through his hair, visibly frustrated. “Fine. You don’t have to tell me the whole story. But can I tell you what _I_ see?”

“If you really want to, I guess you—”

“I see you moping around the bunker every day, and getting distracted on hunts,” Sam says, plowing forward. “I see you drinking more. I see you losing weight. I see you beating yourself up for _every_ _single_ moment that Cas was human and staying in the bunker, and all the crap that went down from it. And I did the only thing I thought would help: contacting him.”

“You had no right to do that,” Dean snaps.

“Yes, I did. You were hurting, and—”

“It’s between _me_ and him, Sammy, not you.”

“It affects me too, Dean! Get your head out of your ass!”

Blinking, Dean snaps his mouth shut with a _click._ Sam looks momentarily embarrassed at his outburst, gusting out a sigh and shaking his head down at the concrete driveway. Dean says, after a tense moment, “Geez, Sammy… say what you really feel, huh?”

Sam huffs out a humorless laugh. Sorry, just… it’s been hard for everyone, Dean. Not just you.”

“Trust me, Sam; that’s one thing I do know.” Dean shoves his hands into his pockets, his shoulders folding in on themselves as he mutters, “Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to drag you into all this. I just don’t know if this whole thing is… fixable.”

“He’s already doing so much better,” Sam implores. “I mean… look at him. He’s even using complete sentences, and stopped being monosyllabic. He’s a lot better than when we last saw him.”

Dean closes his eyes and pushes the mute, blank-faced Cas from a year ago far, far away in his mind. Tries instead to focus on present Cas, who has a little more muscle on his frame and color in his cheeks.“Yeah, he is.”

“And he’s obviously _trying_ , Dean.”

“I think he burned that bridge of ‘trying’ a long time ago,” Dean says, scuffing his foot at the concrete driveway, not letting the tingling pain in his gut show on his face.

“You just have to go easier on him, Dean,” Sam sighs. “You have to think of where this all started.”

His head snaps up. “You’re putting this on _me,_ Sam? Seriously?”

“I’m putting it on both of you, Dean. And I think he wants to make amends. He seems really sorry.”

Clenching and unclenching his fist, Dean mutters, “Yeah, whatever.”

Sam’s phone buzzes in his pocket; he takes it out and grimaces at the screen. “Shit.” He looks up at Dean with his aptly-timed puppy eyes. “I, uh… I forgot to tell you the second part of my plan.”

Dean straightens, instantly suspicious. “Uh-huh. And what would that be?”

“I… have to go.”

“Whaddaya mean, ‘have to go’? What the hell are you talking about?”

“Jody called me yesterday, with a case in Sioux Falls—almost exactly identical to this one. I told her that I’d go… and help.”

“Well, I’ll go too,” Dean declares, whipping around and unlocking the door, as per his original plan. “Cas can call another one of our hunter guys, help him out. You’ll need back up on this one.”

“I have Jody,” Sam says, matter-of-factly. “If anyone needs the back-up, it’s Cas.”

“Whatever. He wants to leave and hunt solo all this time? Then he’ll get the solo gig.” Dean yanks open Baby’s door; it creaks with protest. “Let’s go.”

Sam sighs. “Dean. I really think you should stay here.”

“Oh yeah? Give me one good reason why I should.”

“To work things out with Cas.”

Dean glares at his brother. “A second reason.”

“Because you and I both know that Cas is still getting used to this whole human thing, and he may not be… that great of a hunter yet. He needs the help.”

“So _you_ stay with him.”

“Dean. We’re going in circles.”

With a frustrated groan, Dean pulls at his hair. “Fine, _Jesus,_ I’ll stay here. But you’re coming back in no less than a couple of days, you got that? And you're not taking the Impala. Take Cas' beater instead."

“Fine, sure,” Sam says with a signature eye roll. “I’ll go say goodbye to Cas. Get my stuff out of the car and put it in Cas', will you?”

Dean's eyes follow his brother’s retreating back, and he wonders what in the hell he just agreed to.

 

* * *

 

Dean and Cas watch Cas' old beater century Buick rumbling away with Sam at its helm, after saying his goodbyes and ignoring Dean’s extensive bitch-stares. They stand on the front porch, the thick, cloying cloak of silence settling over them.

“So,” Cas ventures. He doesn’t elaborate.

“Yup,” Dean replies. He smacks a mosquito that has landed on his bare neck. “Fucking suburbs,” he says while glaring at the bloody insect body on his palm.

“There are mosquitos in every area, regardless of the classification of community size.”  

Dean snorts. “Thanks for the geography lesson, Cas.”

“It’s not—”

“Cas,” Dean sighs. He squints into the setting sun. “If we tried to canvas the neighborhood now we’d be stumbling around the dark and the police would probably get called for two weirdos walking around in the streets, so let’s just call it a night.”

“There is the barbeque that we were invited to by that hyperactive blonde woman.”

“Uh-huh, no way,” Dean says. “I’m not brushin’ elbows with these weirdos. We’ll canvas the neighborhood in the morning.” He hoists his bag over his shoulder and stomps into the house, taking another grim look at the perfectly laid-out furniture, the pristine cleanliness of the house. “Fucking suburbs,” he grumbles again as he dumps his bag onto the spotless grey couch.

Cas stands at the front doorway; he shuts the door with a gentle click. “Dean,” he says; in that voice that indicates he wants to talk about something serious.

It’s because Dean knows that voice all too goddamn well that he holds up a hand. “No, Cas. Don’t.”

Cas’ face crumples in a confused frown and tilts his head. Dean instructs himself to not find it adorable. “You don’t even know what I was going to say,” Cas protests.

“I can take a damn guess,” Dean grumbles. “With you, there’s always somethin’.”

Sighing, Cas continues, “I simply wanted to ‘clear the air’, as humans…” He trails off. Looks like he’s eaten something sour. With a breath, he continues, “As the saying goes. I… I have thought a lot about things, over the past year. I wanted to explain to you, to—”

“No.” It bites out of Dean, sharp and loud. “Just… no, Cas, okay. Don’t do this, man.”

“Please, Dean. I want you to hear what I have to say,” Cas says. “I want to express how sorry I am that—”

Dean shakes his head. Holds up a hand. “Nope.”

“But—”

“Cas.” Dean runs his hands over his face and lets out a steadying breath. “Look; the last few years have been fucked up in a lot of ways. And I’m not saying I’m not… grateful… for what you did that lead to all this. But how it happened, and everything afterwards, I just…” Dean shakes his head, lifts his shoulders helplessly. “I can’t, Cas.”

“I really feel that we need to talk about this, Dean. So we can move forward.”

Anger flashes through Dean’s gut. “Cas, get a goddamn clue, man. There is no moving forward.” He stands, and puts his hands on his hips. “Look. I’ll help you with this hunt. I’ll be the freakin’ Lucy to your Ricky, okay? This is a job, nothing else. This isn’t gonna be is a rehashing of the past, a time where we hold our hands and sing kumbaya. Got it?”

Cas stares at Dean. Opens his mouth, then shuts it. Finally: “I do not know who Ricky and Lucy are.”

“Jesus Christ,” Dean says with a palm to his face.

“I can’t promise you that I won’t try to apologize, or explain,” Cas says, taking a step toward Dean (who unconsciously takes a step back). “You can’t ask that of me, Dean.”

“Yes I goddamn can,” Dean says. “The only way this is gonna work, and that we won’t kill each other, is that we pretend it never happened.”

“An inevitably successful coping strategy,” Cas says, deadpan.

Dean holds out his arms and shrugs. “Well, it’s worked before, hasn’t it? I’m not gonna stop now.” He holds up a finger. “So, ground rules. Rule Number One: No mention of the past two years. It’s done, it’s over.”

Cas looks exponentially grumpier. “Fine.”

“Number Two: I don’t wanna know where the hell you were in the past year, okay? It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t help the hunt.”

“A shocking rule,” Cas grumbles.

“And _three_ ,” Dean announces, “is that we only talk about the hunt, and the job—not my feelings, not yours, not anybody’s. Got it?”

Something flashes in Cas’ eyes that Dean could almost label as hurt; he looks away. “If that’s what you want.”

 _He’s going to disappear again, jackass,_ a very traitorous voice says in the back of Dean’s mind. He clears his throat. “Fine, not the… big feelings, anyway. But if you are pissed off at your breakfast or something you can tell me about it.”

“Why would I be angry at my breakfast foods?”

“I don’t know, okay? It’s an example.”

Shaking his head, Cas says, “I don’t see why rules are pertinent in the first place.”

“Well that’s your damn opinion. I’m done talkin’ about it.” Dean shoulders past Cas and into the kitchen.

“Where are you going?” Cas asks exasperatedly.

“To get food, what does it look like?”

“There’s no food in the house. You looked there earlier.”

Dean shuts the fridge door in exasperation. “Is there anywhere a guy can eat around here?”

“Yes, there is. The barbeque that we were invited to.”

Dean pinches the bridge of his nose. “Jesus.”

He doesn’t know what’s more terrifying—getting inadvertently eaten by a supernatural monster because of their cover, or having to act sweet on Cas when he wants to have miles between them.

“Fine,” Dean says with a gusty sigh. “We’ll go. But only if you’ll shut up about it. And only if you change out of that ridiculous fucking leather jacket; who are you, the Fonz?”

“I will change out of this jacket as long as you change into something that makes you look less like an intimidating nomad,” Cas mutters, scooping up his backpack of belongings.

“Fine,” Dean says.

Cas stops. Looks over his shoulder. “I _can_ hunt, Dean, despite your doubts and reservations. I’ve improved over the past year.” He sighs audibly as Dean opens his mouth, adding, “I know, I know. Rule Number Two. I won’t mention it again.”

Dean watches Cas walk toward the downstairs bathroom to change. Memories push; Dean pushes right back.

“No,” he mutters. He pivots on his heel, focusing on the hunt, on the present; on the current mess he's making.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you, SO MUCH, to everyone continuing with this story. I know it can be frustrating and painstaking to follow a WIP, so for everyone who is, and everyone who subscribed and is commenting - holy CRAP you are making my day, and making my life just a little bit more exciting. thank you<3


	4. Interlude; july 2013

Cas’ first solo hunt was, in a word, disastrous.

It took weeks for Dean to get on board with the idea. More and more frequently, Cas would coyly slide his computer over to Dean, eyes imploring, calmly explaining the advantages of him hunting. Dean continually threatened to throw Cas’ computer out of the window.

Cas would then explain that he knew the supernatural creature responsible and how to kill it; that he could be of use .

Dean would then retort that he didn’t give a shit.

And every time, inevitably, it would turn into a screaming match that ended with Cas disappearing into his room behind a slammed door.

Sam understood Cas’ need to escape Dean’s overbearing caretaker tendencies and strike out on his own. Sam experienced this frustration growing up under Dean’s care: no room to breathe, no room to be independent.

So, he regrets what he did; feels awful about it. But when Sam saw Cas sneaking out of the bunker one day, carefully ascending the noisy metal stairs, Sam gave Cas a half-hour head-start before informing Dean.

Dean was understandably pissed. He tried to go after Cas and figure out where the hunt was, where he'd gone, but just came back empty-handed. He refused to even look at Sam for days.

“He’ll be fine, Dean,” Sam tried to assure.

“When he dies, it’s on you,” was all Dean would snap in reply.

Cas finally came back, after a week. He was hunting a vampire’s nest somewhere in Iowa. Cas was particularly drawn to hunting this nest down because they were targeting a host of teenage girls as meals.

When he came back, slowly limping down the stairs, bloody and broken, Sam had to physically push Dean out of the room to stop his verbal tirade at Cas.

Sam grabbed Cas by the shoulders and steered him to the bathroom, where the medical supplies were kept. He led Castiel to the edge of the bathtub, guiding him to sit. “Where are you hurt, Cas?” He tried to keep his voice as gentle as possible.

Cas glared at his dirty shoes—they were caked in dirt and blood. “I will be fine.”

“You need to tell me what hurts, man.” Sam bent down from Castiel’s level. “Do you need to go to a hospital?”

Cas licked his chapped lips and sighed, vocal chords rough from misuse, “I don’t believe so.”

“Well, that’s good,” Sam said, trying at an assuring smile. “Anything broken? Any wounds?”

Cas gingerly lifted up his shirt to reveal a large gash in his side. “I believe this is my only ailment.”

Sam closed his eyes and exhaled a sharp breath through his nose. Dean was going to flip shit. “Wow, Cas, okay. All right. We’ll figure it out—I’ll patch you up. You just sit there, okay?”

For being newly human, and not used to pain yet, Sam had to hand it to Cas with how stoic he remained throughout the whole process. He barely flinched when Sam doused his wound in alcohol (more specifically: a bottle of vodka they kept under the sink for this very purpose) and rubbed on a topical solution to numb the pain.

Sam had the needle poised toward Cas’ wound when he looked up and grimaced. “This might hurt… a lot,” Sam warned.

Cas nodded. “I expect it to.”

Sam drove the needle home for the first stitch. Cas grunted and glared at his dirt-caked boots more intently.

“So, did you… kill the nest?” Sam asked.

Cas stared at Sam for a moment, then gestured for the bottle of liquor. Sam obediently handed it to Cas, who took a sharp swig.

“No,” he said in a husky, pissy voice. “No, I didn’t kill any of them.”

Sam looked at Cas with sympathy. “Oh. Well… it was your first hunt, Cas. Don’t beat yourself up too much. At least you’re alive.”

Cas shrugged. Took another drink.

Continuing the stitches, Sam decided it’d be best to be quiet—focus on doing the stitches evenly. After a few minutes, Cas broke the silence, scowling down at the vodka:

“I wanted to be of use.”

Sam looked up at Cas; at his closed eyes, the pain on his face. He nodded and patted a comforting hand on Cas’ arm. “I know, Cas. I know.”

There was a movement at the door; Sam turned to see Dean standing in the doorway. He somehow looked broody and lost at the same time, eyes flickering from Cas' wounded stomach to Sam. Cas pointedly ignored him.

“What’s the damage?” Dean muttered.

“Side wound,” Sam explained. “I don’t think any of his organs are affected, though.” He gave Cas an encouraging smile, even though it wasn’t acknowledged. “He’ll be fine.”

Dean sniffed, nodded, and pushed at Sam with his knee. “Scoot. You’ll give him a scar.”

Sam hesitated; the last thing Cas needed at that moment was a lecture of ‘I told you so’ from Dean. “You sure?”

“I’m sure that I'm better at stitching than you,” Dean retorted. It was only the brief vulnerability in his eyes that made Sam relent. He stood up, letting Dean bend in front of Cas in his place.

Sam walked to the door, glanced over his shoulder. He waited long enough to see Cas open his eyes, fixing Dean with a very belligerent look.

Dean, in response, put a hand on Cas’ neck, staring at him with a silent question.

Sam decided to leave when he saw Cas, tired and finally defenseless, tilt forward and rest his forehead against Dean’s chest, like Atlas bowing under the weight of the world.

The last thing Sam saw, before gently closing the bathroom door, was Dean letting him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3 as always - would love to know what you think.
> 
> longer update coming up soon:)


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “To be in company, even with the best, is soon wearisome and dissipating… I never found the companion that was so companionable as solitude.” 
> 
> -Henry David Thoreau, Walden

“I don’t like this,” Dean declares.  

Cas sighs; surveys the cars that litter the curb in front of the towering blue-colored house. He and Dean stand a safe distance away at the end of the driveway, not quite ready to face the locals. It’s more than Cas expected to be at a neighborhood barbecue. He observes with interest the couples walking toward the door with their arms laden with food, and the loud, jovial sounds coming from the backyard.

“I find I have to agree,” he concludes.

Dean pulls at the collar of his dress shirt (a part of his FBI disguise and the only formal wear he owns) and grimaces. “This was a shitty idea. We’re going to blow this scheme out of the water in five minutes. I can’t fake a relationship, much less…” he shudders, “...suburban manners.”

Cas resists the urge to roll his eyes. Apparently Dean’s flare for the dramatic hadn’t disappeared during the time that Cas had. He begins the walk up the driveway, gesturing for Dean to follow. “It’ll be better with both sets of our eyes,” he says. “The sooner we go in and look around, the faster we’ll leave.” 

Dean gusts out a sigh, and follows Cas’ steps to the door, like a man taking his final march to the gallows. Cas straightens his jacket (also part of his own FBI disguise) and tries his best to ignore Dean; tries his best to adore the man beside him.

Of course, the latter has never been an issue.

The front door swings open to reveal the same perky blonde woman harassing them at their front door earlier in the afternoon. “You came!” she squeals. “Oh, this is great! Now you’re Dean, and you’re Cas, right? Where is your tall brother? What was his name again?” 

Cas works his jaw, unsure of how to respond to the tirade of questions.

Dean, however, transitions smoothly into one of his many personality facades, as Cas has observed over the years—he pastes on a dazzling smile and puts out his hand. “Hey there—nice to meet you, I’m Dean. What’s your name again?”

She titters, “I’m May.” 

“Well hi, May. This is my husband, Cas—I don’t think you’ve met him yet.” Dean swings his charming smile to Cas, which almost looks like a challenge as Dean says, “Have you met May, babe?”

When Cas smiles back, it feels like a baring of teeth. He hopes it looks real. “No, I haven’t,  _ sweetheart _ ,” he says. He turns to May. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“You too, Cas!” she chimes. Cas wishes she would pitch her volume to normal, human-like standards. “Please come in, both of you—so many people want to meet you!”

“Sorry we didn’t bring anything,” Dean says as they walk through the door. He elbows Cas in the ribs, making him jump in surprise. “This one is a hopeless mess in the kitchen, and I was working all day.” 

“Oh, you don’t cook, Cas?” May drawls. “Me neither. My husband has to do  _ everything _ —drives him crazy!” 

Cas stares at her, unsure of a response. Dean laughs loudly and affectionately puts an arm around Cas, pulling him close. “I can feel his pain, May. I really can!” 

Cas clenches his shoulders tight, summoning everything within him to not try and smite Dean on the spot. 

“Well, come on to the backyard,” May says, gesturing toward the back. “We got lots of great food!” 

“Sounds great,” Dean says with a grin. May turns her back, disappearing further into the house; in tandem, they immediately push away from each other like positively charged magnets. 

“What are you  _ doing _ ?” Cas hisses.

“Trying to sell it,” Dean whispers back. “You could try pulling some of the weight, ya know, instead of acting like...well… yourself.” 

“What is that supposed to mean?” Cas demands.

“You know what it means!” 

“Are you coming, you two?” May calls from inside the house.

They both straighten to attention. Dean sing-songs, “Here we come!” They give each other twin glares before moving further into the house.

It looks as if most of the neighborhood is crammed into the backyard of May’s home; people are chatting in small groups, and children are running rampant through the grass with, inexplicably, at least ten dogs yapping at their heels. There is a grill with at least five men gathered around it, all arguing over the amount of time to wait before flipping the burgers. 

Cas finds himself paralyzed. He glances at Dean, who looks equally terrified. May has disappeared into the crowd. 

“Well… I guess we canvas?” Dean mutters to Cas. 

“Where do you suggest we start?” Cas asks.

“I have no fucking clue.” 

May pops out of nowhere, with a middle-aged man and woman in toe. “Cas, Dean, I want you to meet Jerry and Jerry! They live right next door to you!”

Dean and Cas spare a look at each other. “Both of your names… are ‘Jerry’?” Cas hedges.

“Oh, people get confused all the time!” the female Jerry laughs. “My name comes from Norwegian—it’s spelled J-a-r-i and everyone pronounces it wrong. So I just go with it!” 

“We pretty much just got married for the convenience of people remembering our name,” male-Jerry laughs. 

Dean and Cas respond to the laughter with weak ones of their own. “That’s… nice,” Cas says.

“Aren’t they a hoot?” May shrills.

“They sure are,” Dean says. He gives Cas a quick wide-eyed,  _ where the hell are we  _ sort of look. 

Cas knows that look and what it communicates because when he was an angel, he could sense Dean’s aura whenever he made that expression. Cas tries not to dwell on the fact that Dean’s aura is completely unknown to him now.

He holds out a hand to Jerry and Jari to break the laughter. “I’m Cas.” 

Jerry blinks at the sudden change in conversation; Cas knows that he does this a lot—awkwardly stilting human interactions. But Jerry is gracious enough to take his hand heartily and shake it. “Nice to meet you, Cas! And Dean, right? So how long have you two been in the neighborhood?”

“Just moved here this afternoon,” Dean says. “So we’re still getting settled.”

“We’ll have to have you over for dinner sometime,” Jari says. 

Cas still, even after being a human for a year, cannot understand why all human activities revolve around food.

“That’d be great,” Dean grins. 

“And you two are brothers, or…?” Jerry asks with a wave of his hand.

Jari nudges her husband. “Jerry, don’t make assumptions!” 

Dean clears his throat. “Ah, no, it’s okay, we’re uh… we’re married, actually.” He glances at Cas, discomfort flashing across his face before he wraps an arm around waist and pulls Cas close. He even bumps his head gently into Cas’ for good measure. “Going on three years!” 

“That’s wonderful!” May claps. 

“I wanna assure you, we’re definitely inclusive around here,” Jerry says. “Despite me putting my foot in my mouth. Sorry about that, boys.”

Cas can feel Dean go stiff against him; Cas feels compelled to push himself closer into Dean’s side. “It’s fine,” Cas says for them.

Jari is determined to plow through the awkwardness, chiming, “Well, it was good to meet you two! Enjoy the barbeque, okay? We’ll catch up later.” She pulls her happily clueless husband by the arm toward where a gaggle of children are playing with the dogs. 

May finds something fascinating across the lawn and flits away to do her hostess duties.

“Fucking suburbia,” Dean growls under his breath. 

“Fucking suburbia,” Cas agrees. He tries to look reassuring in reply to Dean’s sparing glance. They’re still glued to each other’s side, but neither of them is moving. 

“I guess we should…” Dean gestures vaguely to themselves.

“I suppose,” Cas grumbles.

Another couple pounces on them before they can move or blink. 

These people are named Beverly and Chad. Beverly is a dental hygienist and Chad is a physical therapist. They work in the same office complex and have an annoying dog that runs up to them and keeps tugging at Cas’ pant leg.

A crowd slowly forms around them, persistently determined to meet Cas and Dean in extensive detail: by the end of the hour, Dean has quickly fabricated their careers (Cas is a doctor and Dean is an engineer at a nearby power plant), their educations (both went to SUNY Buffalo, hence why they’re still in the area), and their aspirations (“Adopting a baby by next year, here’s hoping!” Dean says with sarcastically crossed fingers). 

Despite matching at least twenty names to twenty new faces, they are no closer to figuring out what is going on in the neighborhood, or even any indication that there is a threat at all. 

It is also emotionally exhausting, standing this close to Dean.

Dean and Cas excuse themselves to duck inside and get drinks in the kitchen, which is relatively empty. 

Opening the fridge, Dean ducks his head inside, pretending to rummage for a drink. “This isn’t going well,” he mutters to Cas, who is standing close by.

“It’s impossible to bring up any suspicious activity that may be happening in the neighborhood without seeming suspicious ourselves,” Cas sighs, leaning against the counter. “Besides, all they seem interested in is our…” he wrinkles his nose in confusion, “...personal lives.”

“That’s how humans are when they are tryin’ to make small talk, Cas,” Dean says exasperatedly. He pulls a bottle of water out of the fridge and twists it open. “Besides, you’re not exactly helping things by being so freakin’ awkward.”

“This whole situation is awkward,” Cas snaps.

“I’m putting in my whole effort here man, okay? But you’re acting like you’ve never talked to a human being in your life. What did you even learn when you were hunting this whole past year?”

“I wasn’t necessarily hunting the whole time,” Cas shoots back, pitching his voice lower when he hears laughter from another area of the house. “Besides, Dean, your  _ rules  _ dictate that we don’t talk about that.”

Dean takes a swing of the water, looking away. He swipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Whatever. Just… let’s get through this, okay? You’re human now, Cas, that’s just a fact. You gotta start acting like one sometime. It's not gonna change, because  _you_ decided to be that way. Got it?” 

Cas blinks at Dean. The words fall so swiftly and shockingly that he doesn’t even know how to react. " _I_ decided?" is all he can choke out.

Dean slowly lowers his water-bottle and stares at Cas, seeming to realize what he’s said. 

“Shit, Cas… I—”

“There you two are!” May practically shouts, cutting into the tense moment. “You finding everything you need?” 

Dean nods, saying a strangled, “Uh, yup. We sure are.” 

Cas stares at the counter, suddenly finding it immensely fascinating.

“Oka-ay,” May sings. Cas notices that her volume increases exponentially with how nervous she feels. “Well, I have one more person who wants to meet you—we’ll be out by the grill, so don’t take too long, okay?” 

At Cas and Dean’s twin nods, May flits back out into the yard.

They let the kitchen soak in silence; Cas stares at his hand as he waits for Dean to say something. He contemplates how tight his skin is around his wrist; how tight it often feels.

“Look,” Dean sighs. “Maybe it’s best if we… interview people by ourselves. Split up. We’ll cover more ground that way.” 

Cas nods. “All right.” 

Dean stares at the contents of his water for another moment before walking away. “‘kay then.” 

Cas allows himself another moment of staring into nothing, letting the chaos of thoughts flood his mind— _ broken, hurting Dean, not good, fallen, useless, stop hurting Dean— _ for a flash of a second before building the dam once again, shutting them out until they’re simply a faint, irritating buzz.

May predictably intercepts him as he walks outside. “Oh, Cas! Here, let me introduce you to Faith!” She gestures to the woman standing at May’s shoulder, who has a beer bottle clutched lazily in her hand, and is looking off into the distance.

Cas gives her a small wave. Faith locks eyes with him, and her blank expression becomes suddenly animated. Her eyes slowly dive down to his shoes, and then back up at his face again. 

“Hi Cas,” she grins, holding out a hand for him to shake.

“She’s a nurse at a local hospital, so I bet you’ll both have a lot to talk about,” May says with a wide smile. At Cas’ blank stares, May expounds, “Since you’re a doctor and everything, right? Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go deal with an emergency lack-of-chips situation.” She winks and skips off, disappearing as mysteriously as she appeared.

“She’s… enthusiastic,” Faith supplies.

Cas nods gravely. “Very much so.” 

“I was minding my own business trying to get a burger when… poof.” Faith flicks her fingers in the air as a demonstration. “She appeared out of nowhere.” 

“She’s been doing that to Dean and I frequently, since we got here,” Cas agrees. 

“Who is Dean? Your partner?” Faith asks. 

“Yes. My… husband. He’s…” Cas scans the crowd; he spots Dean closer to the fence, talking to a blonde woman who is giggling in response to his charm. “He’s over there; he’s wearing a white shirt.”

Faith follows Cas’ pointed finger, and smiles. “Oh, yeah? He’s cute.” 

One of the annoying side effects of being human is Cas’ propensity to blush. He feels the heat rise to his cheeks as he says, “Yes. He is.”

“I’m not married,” Faith says with a wistful sigh. “Career takes up all my time. As a doctor, you can probably understand.” 

“Ah… yes.” Cas tries to look informative as he nods. “Medical professions are very stressful.” He thinks he’s heard that somewhere.

“All-consuming.” Faith agrees. “It’s hard to meet anyone.” She stares at him with piercing blue eyes. “How did you find Dean?” 

Cas frowns at her phrasing. His knee-jerk reaction is to explain that he found Dean in Hell, raised him from perdition, and has been trying to keep a grip on him ever since. He quickly remembers reality, however.

His mind flips through the lies that Dean told about their backstory in the last hour. “We… found each other, I suppose. We met in college.”

“That’s nice. Good place to meet people.” Faith takes a sip of her beer; hugs her arms closer to her chest. “It’s cold out here, isn’t it?” 

Cas affirms her comment with a nod; he can’t help but let a smile tug the corner of his lips. Finally, a human as inept at carrying a linear conversation as he is. 

“I’m kinda glad we’re talking,” Faith says, “barbeques aren’t really my thing. Or big crowds of people. Or… people.” 

Cas chuckles at that. “I find I have to agree.” 

“Well, that’s why introverts like us should probably stick together,” Faith says with a raise of her drink. “Especially those of us in lonely professions. But, you’re married, so that’s probably not a problem.”

“What isn’t?” Cas asks.

“Loneliness.” 

Cas frowns. Wants to affirm that, of course it is. Loneliness has become a friendly companion to him over the past year as he limped from town to town, unsure of where to plant himself or what to do. It’s possible that he’s been acquainted with loneliness even earlier than this, but his angelic powers prevented him from feeling trivial human feelings so strongly.

He remembers as he opens his mouth, of course, that in this reality he’s happily married to Dean. The Cas in this reality gets to sleep next to Dean every night, wake up with him every morning. Gets to hear his out-of-tune renditions of Led Zeppelin in the shower and go on long drives with him in the Impala. In this unattainable reality, he’s not lonely in the slightest. 

“It’s not a problem,” Cas says, pasting on a smile as fake as the relationship he claims to be a part of. “I have Dean.” 

Faith nods, taking another sip of beer. “Must be nice. Especially to live with someone—with all the murders happening around here, I’d love to have even at least a roommate to help me fight off any intruders.”

Cas lifts his head. “The murders?”

“Oh—well, I suppose you just moved here, but…” Faith waves a hand. “You don’t have anything to worry about. They mostly found the bodies outside of this development. Sure, most of the victims are  _ from  _ this development, but… you know how stupid people are. Walking late at night, going to bars super late and trying to walk home drunk… As long as you don’t do shit like that, you’ll be fine.” She shrugs. “And I’m sure the police are on it.” 

“Are there… any leads?” Cas asks carefully.

“Who knows,” Faith says. “All I know is that it sucks because now I’m too afraid to go to my favorite places, with a crazy murderer running around. Like, there’s this lake a mile from the neighborhood—Crystal Lake. Have you been there yet?”

“I haven’t,” Cas says. “But it sounds lovely.”

“It is,” Faith says with a nod. She grins. “I should show it to you sometime.” 

Cas says, unsure, “Oh, uh… sure. That would be nice. Dean might like it too.”

Her smile seems to falter, as if someone bumped into a frame and knocked it crooked. “Oh, yeah. Him too. Anyway, sorry to drag down the mood with… death, and everything. Welcome to the neighborhood I suppose?” She laughs, almost sarcastically. “I’ve got to go now, but I’d love to meet Dean sometime. He seems… nice.” 

“Oh—yes, he is.” He clears his throat. “I’m sure he’d love to meet you, too.”

She puts her beer on a nearby table and gives Cas a wave, and a flashing smile. “Nice to meet you, Cas.” 

“You too,” Cas is able to say before she walks in the direction of the house, her long, dark ponytail swinging behind her. He blinks after her, unsure of what to make of the interaction. 

Cas suffers through a few more uncomfortable conversations, all the while waiting for Dean to give the signal to leave. He tries to probe for information on the murders to no avail. 

He is absurdly grateful when Dean finally places a hand on the small of his back and guides him toward the door, waving to anyone who seems sad about their departure, explaining, “Long day of moving, we need our beauty sleep!” 

As soon as they leave the house, Dean sighs, shoulders slumping—he morphs back into the typical Dean that Cas knows. “God  _ damn  _ I hate barbeques,” he grumbles, speed-walking down the driveway like there’s a ghost on his heels. “Lisa used to drag me to one every weekend and after a while, the novelty of free food wears off pretty quick when you know what company you have to suffer through to get it.”

“It was… not pleasant,” Cas admits as they turn down the sidewalk, pointed in the direction of their ‘home’. Luckily, May’s house is only a two-block walk.

“Did you get any good intel, at least?” Dean asks, shoving his hands into his jeans pockets as he walks. 

“Unfortunately, no,” Cas replies. “I did meet an interesting person, however.” 

“Oh, yeah?”

“Faith. She was the only person that talked about the murders—but I suspect that’s because she tends to dismiss social norms,” Cas adds with a small smile, thinking back to their conversation. He realizes Dean is quiet; he looks up to see that Dean is looking at him strangely.

“What?” Cas asks.

“So she seems nice, huh?” Dean asks.

“I suppose. What does that have to do with the case?”

“It doesn’t.” Dean walks faster; Cas matches his pace. “I got nothing on my end, either. Whole thing was a waste of time. All I got is that May is a certified hostess psycho, people around here are closeted homophobes, and everyone likes to act like reality ain’t biting them in the ass with these murders. This is the house, right? Everything looks the damn same.” 

Cas follows Dean as they turn up their dark driveway. “Perhaps it would be better to go with our original plan of posing as FBI agents, and try to get a more thorough autopsy report.” 

Dean scrubs a hand over his face before he opens the front door. “Yeah, you’re probably right.” He opens the door and frowns at the dark interior. “Home sweet home.” 

Flipping on a couple of lights, Dean scoops up his large duffel bag from the ground. He goes to the couch and begins to dump the contents of his bag onto it.

“What are you doing?” Cas asks.

“Settling in, what’s it look like? I’m beat.”

“You’re sleeping  _ here _ ?” 

“Yeah, why not?”

Cas gestures to the stairs. “Because there are undoubtedly rooms upstairs that you can sleep in?” 

“Then  _ you _ sleep in one of them. Then you can keep watch upstairs, I’ll keep watch downstairs.”

Cas pinches the bridge of his nose. “Dean. You’re being ridiculous.”

“ _ I’m  _ being practical,” Dean declares, sitting on the couch. He gives it a small bounce as if to test the firmness. “This couch is pretty swanky, anyway.”

Feeling himself rapidly approaching the end of his rope, Cas waves a hand at the whole scene. “If that’s what you want, Dean, then fine.” He shoulders his own backpack that is sitting by the door—it holds everything that he owns. He catches Dean’s eye, who quickly looks away and fiddles with his hands. 

As Cas is ascending the stairs, Dean calls, “Uh… wait, Cas.” 

Cas stops. “Yes, Dean?”

“That comment I made earlier… in May’s kitchen. That wasn’t cool of me, okay, man? I shouldn’t have said that.” 

Cas wills his mind to go blank; he can still hear the buzz. “It’s nothing.”

“No, I mean—” Dean scratches the back of his head uncomfortably. “I know it’s hard, and… sorry. I’ll shut up about it.” 

_ He’ll be angry, for a while,  _ Sam had reminded Cas before he left.  _ Just be patient. There’s a lot more that Dean’s feeling than anger, right now.  _

Cas knows he should be patient. He  _ knows  _ he should tread carefully. But all he sees is a wall that Dean is putting up: one that Cas will never be able to dismantle, even though it was him that put that wall there in the first place. 

Dean’s deflection of anger and bitterness is Cas’ fault. He  _ knows _ that.

Nevertheless, he feels the frustration boil up to his throat; it’s what makes the words come out unbidden: “Dean, being this obstinate is ridiculous. Why won’t you let me just explain what happened?” 

It’s like the shudders close on a house’s front window; Dean’s expression hardens and he turns his back to Cas. “No, Cas. Leave it.” He begins folding his clothes, pointedly ending the conversation.

Cas stands there, one hand gripping the stair-rail tight hard enough to bruise. 

_ He’ll be angry for a while,  _ Sam’s voice reminds him.

Or forever, Cas thinks with a sinking heart.

He waits for a moment too long before nodding his head and moving again, up to the bedroom alone. “Goodnight, Dean.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3 let me know what you thought. i know i still haven't finished up reply to everyone's comments in the last chapter, but i will soon, promise.


	6. interlude; sept 2013

Sam thought he knew the extent of how broody and pissed off Dean could get when he was emotionally hurt. He thought that after a lifetime of knowing Dean, and an equally long lifetime of hunting and fighting bloody beside each other, Sam thought he had been subjected to the full spectrum of Dean’s emotions, and how they manifested.

Then Cas left and… well. Sam was proven wrong.

Dean’s drinking increased. It was mostly behind closed doors, but Sam noticed Dean’s increasingly frequent runs to the liquor store. The consistent emptiness of the liquor cabinet also gave credence to just how much he was drinking.

Dean got sloppier on cases. Sometimes it seemed he was putting himself in danger intentionally; making more reckless decisions, not properly taking care of himself when he got hurt. All to jab a middle finger at fate, and challenge it to do whatever it wanted with him.

His mood swings were more unpredictable, and much more jarring. Sam could spend the whole day trying to get Dean to talk (about anything—as long as it got Dean to stop staring vacantly at an empty beer bottle, or this crumpled up piece of paper that he always seem to have with him), and would always be met with either brooding silence or Dean shouting at him to let it go.

One night, about a week after Cas’ departure, Sam woke to the sound of something shattering. He ran to the bathroom to find the mirror above the sink broken, and a beer bottle’s remains scattered on the floor. Dean was sitting on the side of the bathtub with his head in his hands, back arching and bowing from his heavy breaths.

Sam pointedly ignored the fact that Dean was clutching a blue flannel Cas always wore between his fists, his face buried in it. 

Sam sat next to him, putting a comforting and hesitant hand on Dean’s shoulder. Dean allowed it, which was more than what he usually did.

Finally, Sam said into the silence, when Dean’s breaths became less harsh and staccatoed: “I know you’re taking this hard.” When Dean said nothing, he continued, “It was Cas’ choice, Dean. You can’t take the burden of someone’s choice on you  _ every  _ time they disappoint you.” 

Still nothing. Sam sighed. “It’s not your fault he left, you know.” Dean went still under Sam’s hand. “None of it is your fault, Dean.”

Dean raised his head from where it was hidden in Cas’ flannel, his eyes bright and wet. Sam was thrown off balance, seeing the obvious tear tracks on Dean’s face. Sam thought he might say something—yell, scream, punch, do  _ something _ —but instead he stood up, momentarily swaying, and left the room.

After that, the walls went up. Dean donned his ‘nothing ever bothers me’ facade like an old, familiar coat. The drinking continued, the anger continued; this time in all hours of the day. He started ditching their shared hotel room so he could have his usual string of one-night-stands (Sam didn’t mention the fact that Dean would usually come back to the hotel room far earlier than a one-night stand warranted). He began picking fights in the bars for no real reason, leaving Sam to gather him back up from the sticky bar floor.

Sam would ask him what he’s feeling. Dean would take a swig of whiskey and glare daggers.

Sam could see that the last threads of vulnerability in Dean snapped and retreated into some dark recess, protected from the eyes of anyone around him.

After that night, Sam didn’t try to talk about Cas’ departure with Dean again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this took so long, and it's so short! somethin' angsty to tide you guys over until I update again - which will be next week, i'm hoping:)  
> <3 hope you're all doing well. i've missed you guys!


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Things do not change; we change.” 
> 
> -Henry David Thoreau, Walden

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just a note, since i've gotten a lot of comments on it - I've been keeping the year that the present timeline of the story takes place, and the season that it's aligned with for my own mysterious reasons. BUT I do reveal the year in this chapter, so hopefully that'll help you figure out what season that's aligned with ;) so keep a look out!

Dean’s having a dream. _Again_.

They come often, the good dreams; more often than the nightmares. And he’s used to nightmares. He’s gotten them all his life: his mom burning on the ceiling, Sam getting possessed by a demon, his dad screaming at him from the grave… Hell. He’s had plenty of horrific, gory images burned into his brain to last a lifetime, and they often spill into his sleep consciousness.

But it’s not the nightmares that scare him; it’s the _good_ dreams.

It’s the dreams that are good, but impossible. It’s the dreams of him visiting Sam and Jess and their huge and happy family, of being able to play-wrestle with Sam’s dusty-blonde, perky kids in his huge backyard.

It’s the dreams where he owns a house tucked into the woods at the end of a quiet cul-de-sac, with a garden in the backyard and being able to actually live above ground and hear the birds in the morning and crickets at night. A house with endless bookshelves lining the walls, with a study in the back where sunlight streams through the windows, so that Cas can read for hours.

No, the dreams that _really_ get him are the ones where he and Cas can have a peaceful moment alone, hands clutched, letting the day pass away, and not caring about the danger lurking in the corners.

This time, he’s dreaming about him and Cas cooking a meal together (stupidly, in the same kitchen as the model home’s kitchen), Cas holding up a spoon of pasta sauce for Dean to try. Dean getting it on his chin, and Cas kissing it off his chin, which inevitably leads to Dean pushing against Cas, into the counter, framing Cas’ face between his hands and kissing him deeply like there’s no goddamn tomorrow.

Cas says, “Dean,” before catching him into another kiss.

But then he hears another Cas’ voice, coming from outside the kitchen. That can’t be right.

“Dean. _Dean!”_

Dean jolts awake, flinging his hand out from under the pillow and whipping around, knife held in front of him. He forgets he’s on a couch; loses his balances and smacks to the floor. He rolls over on his back and squints upward. Cas is standing over him, hands on hips, bed hair sticking every which-way. Real-Cas looks substantially more grumpy than dream-Cas.

“ _What_?” Dean groans.

“There’s someone at the door,” Cas hisses, grabbing his arm and pulling him from the floor. “You need to clean your things up before I answer it.”

“Why,” Dean grumbles, blearily accepting the clothes that Cas keeps shoving into his arms.

“Because we’re supposed to be in a relationship and you’re not supposed to be sleeping on the couch, Dean.” Cas pushes Dean’s duffel into his chest to make a point. “Put these in the study.”

“Geesh, _fine_.” His socked feet drag against the slippery wood floor as he shuffles to the study, opening the door and haphazardly throwing his stuff into the room.

“Done,” he announces with a huge yawn.

Cas gives him an exasperated look before opening the front door, the morning light flooding the living room.

At the doorstep is a young woman Dean doesn’t recognize. But Cas seems to, judging by his welcoming smile.

“Hi, Cas!” she greets way too enthusiastically for that early in the morning. “I hope I’m not coming by too early?”

“Not at all,” Cas assures her. “We’re just waking up.”

“Well I’ll make it quick.” She adjusts her purse strap over her shoulder and brushes an errant hair where it hangs over her eye. “Remember that lake we were talking about at the barbeque yesterday? I thought we could go tomorrow, if you wanted. It’s supposed to be a beautiful day and if you’re not working…” She raises her eyebrows expectantly.

“I, ah,” Cas stutters. He gives Dean a look over his shoulder. “No, I should be free.”

“Great! Can I get your number?”

The woman—still unknown to Dean, because even though her eyes flicker over Cas’ shoulder and sees him hanging in the living room like a shmuck, she doesn’t say hello—exchanges numbers with Cas, teases him for Cas’ brick of a cellphone from the dark ages, and leaves with an airy goodbye. Dean crosses his arms and arches an eyebrow as Cas clicks the door shut.

“What?” Cas asks, slowly, to Dean’s expression.

“Nothin’. Just didn’t realize you got so friendly with the locals so soon.”

Cas, clueless as always, asks, “What do you mean?”

Dean gusts out a sigh. “Forget it. If you don’t get it, then you really have your head up your ass.”

“I don’t understand what you’re referring to.” Cas gives the kitchen a forlorn look, then walks to the shiny chrome fridge. “Do we have any food for breakfast?”

“What, you think it magically appeared while you were sleepin’?”

Cas’ head peeks up over the fridge door, a judgmental eyebrow raised. “As I recall, your life completely revolves around food. I had assumed you took a trip to the grocery store.”

“No, Cas, I didn’t go the damn grocery store.” He sinks on the couch, scrubbing a hand over his face. From the brief months Dean experienced of Cas being newly human, he does remember Cas’ dark moods that came from being hungry. It was like constantly keeping on top of feeding a bear. “We’ll get food, okay? But first we need to make a plan.”

Cas carefully perches on one of the stools at the kitchen island. Dean tries not to find his slumped shoulders, chaotic bed-head, and pouting lip absolutely adorable. “What plan?”

“Well, it sounds like you’re going to be canoodling with one of the neighbors tomorrow. What’s-her-face.”

“Faith. And you’ll have to define the term ‘canoodling’.”

Dean all but smacks his forehead. “ _Flirting_ , Cas.”

“I was not—”

“Her, dude, _she_ was flirting!”

“Oh.” Cas shrugs. “I don’t see the issue, Dean. And if we can get the locals’ trust, how is that a problem?”

“Well obviously it’s not a _problem_ , Cas, it’s just—she obviously likes you. And we’re not even really in a relationship, so flirt with whoever you want, and… go for it, or whatever.”

Cas keeps staring at him. “You’re acting strange about this.”

“Jesus.” Dean pinches the bridge of his nose. “Fine. Let’s move on. She was the one that was talking to you about the murders yesterday at the barbecue, right?” At Cas’ nod, Dean says, “Peachy. So today we should do our own scoping; pose as FBI agents, go to the morgue, get the full autopsy, the usual shtick.”

“Very well,” Cas says. “After breakfast.”

Dean rolls his eyes to the ceiling, throwing his hands in the air. “Yes, Cas, damn it, after breakfast!”

After Dean yanks on a pair of jeans, and Cas pulls on a hoodie over his crazy bed hair, they pile into the Impala to go the grocery store.

“Navigate me,” Dean demands, tossing his android phone over in Cas’ lap.

Cas blinks at him in response. “How?”

“You seriously don’t know how to use a smartphone? It’s 2014, Cas.”

“And I’ve been a human for barely a year,” he snaps back.

Dean loudly sighs. “Jesus.” He snatches back the phone and nimbly finds the app, typing in directions for the nearest grocery store. “There. Just tell me what streets to go on.”

“Do you know how to get out of the development?”

“Yeah, just direct me when I get to the main road.”

“All right.” Dean catches sight of Cas’ frowning face, lip bitten in thought, as Dean turns to back Baby out of the driveway. “You know, grappling with technology has been one of the hardest things about becoming human.”

“You don’t say.” Dean straightens the Impala and shifts gears. Tries to remain detached.

“Yes. That, and hunger.”

“Clearly.”

Cas turns his frown to Dean. “You are also driven by food. I don’t understand why you insist on mocking me.”

“I’m not mocking you, Cas. I’m just…” _Trying to get back to how we used to be before all this fallen angel shit went down,_ he doesn’t say. “Sorry,” he grunts instead.

The rest of the ride is in silence, with the occasional geographical help from Cas. Dean pulls into the huge parking lot of a Wegman’s grocery store, which is surprisingly packed for eight a.m. on a Saturday morning.

Dean shifts the gear to park and twists the key. “All right. We get in, we get out. Just food for the next couple of days. And no doughnuts, okay? Don’t you think I forgot how they make your stomach hurt in the morning.”

“I’m not a _child_ , Dean,” Cas says, exasperated, before launching himself out of the door.

Turns out the first thing Cas goes for is the doughnuts, anyway. They’re on a display right when they walk in, so it’s not like there was any chance. Dean just rolls his eyes when they get deposited into the cart.

“Get a fruit at least, Cas. Sam will kill me if you get scurvy during this case.”

“Scurvy takes at least four weeks to develop, Dean.”

“Fine, smartypants—what about strawberries?” Dean asks, tilting his head toward the display.

“Only if you want them. I’m allergic.”

The cart clips a corner of the fruits display, shaking the metal. “Oh.” It’s becoming an uncomfortable realization that Dean knows less about Cas as a human than he realized. “Uh, how’d you find that one out?”

“A shelter.” Cas picks up a bag of grapes, brow crinkling. “I think I like these.” He deposits them in the cart.

“A…” Dean’s throat feels dry. He clears it. “A shelter?”

“Yes. Luckily a volunteer had an epipen on-site. Oranges?”

Dean blinks at Cas holding a bag of oranges mid-air, unfocused and mildly horrified. “Huh?”

“Do you want oranges?”

“I...sure.” Dean absentmindedly followed Cas, winding through the produce section. _Cas was in a shelter,_ his brain keeps shouting at him. It’s in a loop, carouseling in his brain, making it hard to listen to Cas when he asks him a question.

“Dean, are you listening? Should we get—”

“You were in a damn _shelter_?” Dean bursts.

“Well…yes—”

“And you didn’t think to mention that?”

Cas shrugs, and bags a few apples into a plastic bag. “It’s one of your rules, Dean. Don’t talk about the past year. Or the past at all, for that matter.”

“Well, I’m breaking it, right the hell now.” Dean swings the cart to a stop and puts his hands on his hips. “Is that where you were staying the whole time you were gone? Instead of being at the bunker, where you actually had a _bed_?”

“Hunting for a living isn’t lucrative, Dean. There were times where I had to stay in a shelter until I figured things out,” says Cas as he calmly puts the bag of apples into the cart. “Besides, I got on my feet after that. I began to pick up odd jobs that people needed in the towns I traveled to. And occasionally I would ...depend on the charity of another hunter, or others.”

Dean’s not even going to _begin_ to think of what _that_ means. “Glad to hear you left us for such a glamorous life, Cas.”

Cas fixes Dean with a withering, electric-blue stare. “I didn’t leave for a _glamorous life._ And if you’d let me explain, then you’d know _why_ I left.”

“Oh, I know why you left,” Dean says. _From your goddamn note,_ he doesn’t add. Ignoring the ache in his chest and the aforementioned crinkled note burning a hole in his jeans pocket, he rolls the cart toward the salads. “You didn’t even use the fake ID or birth certificates Sam and I got you? The fake credit cards?”

“Well… no.” He avoids Dean’s eyes.

“You don’t have to explain, I get it just fine,” Dean says, unable to keep the biting tone out of his voice. “You didn’t want us to track you.”

Cas doesn’t reply, and acts fascinated in the salad mixes to their right.

Dean clears his throat, stands straighter. He fights the familiar acidic feeling in his gut. “Smart of you,” he says, gruffly. “First thing we did was look for hits on your ID. After looking at John Does in morgues in the area, obviously.”

“...Oh.”

“You sure seemed gung-ho about hunting, so we assumed you got yourself ganked by some demon or accidentally walked off a cliff somewhere. Glad to see that wasn’t the case, Cas, and you made yourself an honest life by staying in shelters and not getting yourself killed.”

Cas shakes his head, closing his eyes. “I…” As he stands there, Dean can see the sharp planes of his shoulders shaking minutely. In a blink he goes from stone, to violently snatching a bag of salad and slam-dunking it into the cart. “I’d like to reimplement the strict observance of your rule,” he snaps before striding away.

“No shit,” Dean mutters.

When he finds Cas again, it’s in the worst kind of circumstances: May and her husband found Cas, and are cornering him in the chips aisle, against the pretzels. Cas’ eyes dart to Dean as he walks toward them, torn between relieved and reluctant to see him again.

Dean takes a steadying breath before pasting on a very wide, very fake grin and approach them.“Fancy seeing you guys here.”

“Oh, Dean!” May cries. “We were just talking about you! Weren’t we, Bob?”

“Sure were,” the man next to her, assumedly Bob, grins. He holds out a hand. “Don’t think we’ve met yet.”

“Nice to meet you,” Dean says, because it’s friendly, even when it’s not quite the truth. Bob’s handshake feels like it could break bone. He pulls away hastily.

“I was just telling Cas that the both of you should come over for dinner this week,” May beams. “I’m having a couple of people over; nothing like that crazy barbecue, don’t worry. Much more intimate this time.”

Dean has to contain a groan. “Well, I’m sure game. What about you, babe?”

Cas hesitates, blinking at him, obviously forgetting their relationship facade. “Oh. Yes. Darling.”

Dean resists smacking his forehead. Or Cas’.

“Well, wonderful!” May says, not skipping a beat. “I just got Cas’ phone number, so we’ll be in touch. Happy grocery shopping!”

“See you around, boys,” Bob says with a friendly wave.

Dean makes a face at their retreating backs. Cas sees it, and his lips twitch with a grin.

“They are freaky,” Dean mutters.

“Agreed.”

“Do they seem kind of… scripted, to you?”

Cas nods. “From what I know about human behavior, it is odd. There’s not a thing out of place.”

Humming in agreement, Dean begins to push the cart, once again making their journey. “Let’s keep an eye on them.”

Nodding, Cas puts a bag of pretzels in the cart. “Let’s.”

Dean’s never been more relieved to leave a grocery store once their groceries are bagged and bought with a fake credit card. Once in the car, Dean hands Cas a granola bar. “Appetizer.”

Begrudgingly, Cas accepts the apology. “Thank you, Dean.”

 

* * *

 

The local medical examiner’s office is in a blocky, grey building the size of a small parking lot. Dean’s expected no less, being in a small town on the east coast.

“They probably won’t even ask for our IDs and just take us at our word,” Dean says to Cas over the top of the car. He slides a fake FBI badge that he had in the glove compartment with Cas’ picture. “But just in case.”

Cas slides it back. “I already have a fake badge.”

“People don’t buy that it’s a fake if it was printed at Walmart, Cas.”

“I paid someone to do it,” Cas says with an eye-roll. “I do have resources.”

“Sure you do,” Dean mutters under the slam of the car door. Their long coats flap in the chilly wind as they walk toward the entrance. “Just keep your head down and I’ll do the talking, okay? Stand there and look pretty.”

“Dean.” Cas stops, grabbing Dean’s arm and turning him. “This won’t work if you refuse to take me seriously as a hunter.”

Dean takes a deep sigh, shrugging his shoulders. “Well, Cas, kinda hard to take you seriously since the last time I saw you trying to hunt, you were half-dead from a vampire nest.”

“That was a year ago,” Cas says, chin jutting upward. “Besides the point; I _have_ improved. You can count on me.”

“All right, sure, man,” Dean says. He gives Cas’ hand, still gripping Dean’s arm, a pointed look. “We goin’ in now?”

Cas follows Dean’s eyeline. He frowns. “Yes.”

Dean convinces himself that he’s imagining it, the way that Cas seems reluctant to let his arm go.

Getting past the entrance desk is as seamless as Dean predicted. He gives the young girl sitting at the receptionist desk a flirty smile and wave of his badge (same procedure with the police officer that double-checks their security clearance, as well). Cas doesn’t hold his badge upside down, which Dean counts as a plus.

The police officer leads them down a hallway, depositing them in the main room of the morgue, where he assured them the medical examiner would be with them shortly.

Dean shoves his hands in his pockets, refraining a sneeze against the smell of formaldehyde. He keeps his eyes off Cas, who is approaching a body on the table with curiosity.

“This body matches the description of the man who was most recently killed,” Cas informs Dean.

“Peachy.” Dean approaches, but stays a good distance away. The man on the table _does_ match the files that Cas gave him—mid-thirties, brunette, barely six foot.  “I can see those fake vamp bites from here,” he says, craning his neck to get a better view.

Cas hums musingly. His fingers trail lightly, not touching, over the grey skin of the victim’s neck. “But no blood loss.”

“Nope.” Dean catches himself staring at Cas’ long, nimble fingers hovering over the body, and shakes himself. “Why are you doing that, dude?”

“Habit.” Cas grimaces more than smiles. “When I had my grace, it was a way of figuring out the cause of death or ailment in humans.” He shoves his hands in his pockets and turns his back to the body, eyes glancing around the room. They land on a cluttered desk of papers in the corner to Dean’s right. “I’ll search for the file. I believe I remember the case number.”

Dean takes the opportunity to approach the body. He does a cursory look; no trauma to the epidermis, no obvious fractures or broken bones, no initial signs of wounds apart from the two tiny puncture wounds in the neck, the size of a pin. “Not even big enough to be a vamp bite,” Dean mutters.

His phone’s shrill ringtone breaks the oppressive silence in the room. He digs it out of his pocket. “Yeah?”

“Hey, Dean.” Sam’s voice comes down the line as a friendly reprieve. “How’s it going over there?”

“Uh, well… you know.” Dean glances over his shoulder at Cas, who is making busy with the files. “It’s going.”

“Cas is with you, huh?”

“Clearly, since you shoved us together for this case.”

“Okay, geez. You don’t have to get bitchy.” Sam sighs. “I have some info on what’s going on in Sioux Falls, if you wanna hear it.”

“Does it seem like the same monster as here?” Dean asks. Cas has somehow heard Sam down the line, because he’s approaching Dean tentatively, head bent, a file clutched in his hands. Dean clicks the volume up on the receiver.

“There’s a lot of similarities,” Sam says, rustling paper on his end. “So the bodies Jodi has in their morgue, they all have those puncture wounds—sometimes on the neck, sometimes on the face. But I don’t think they’re vampire bites.”

“They’re too small,” Dean agrees.

“Yeah. I compared past measurements of vampire bites we’ve found on people to these, and they’re at least a few centimeters off.”

“Okay, so either a baby vampire is killing these people, or not a vampire.”

“Sure. Yes. And another thing—I think I figured out what creature it _might_ be. But it’s only a guess.”

“A Vetala,” Cas says softly beside Dean.

“A Vetala,” Sam says on the phone in almost the same beat. “Remember Dad hunted one once? His journal had the measurements of teeth, from what I remember, and they were the same. Well, way smaller than a vampire’s, anyway. Do you have his journal with you?”

“No, it’s back in the bunker.” More accurately, Dean stuffed it under his mattress and ignored its existence.

“Okay, well, everything else makes sense,” Sam continues. “When they bite, they release venom, and it paralyzes and eventually kills the victim. Maybe the Vetala in your area keeps getting interrupted in their kills for some reason, and can’t finish the job.”

“So it’s still hungry,” Dean says, eyeing the body on the slab.

“Yeah. And it likes its kill fresh. So it makes sense why it wouldn’t go back to finish the job, it would just leave the body there.”

Dean sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. The smell of the morgue is giving him a headache. “Killing a Vetala is a bitch, too”

“Yup. Invulnerable unless you stab them with a silver knife in the heart and twist once."

“Easy as cake.” Dean rolls his eyes in Cas’ direction sarcastically; Cas grins.

“And they hide in plain sight, too. They’re virtually undetectable because they look like humans. But they’re usually way more attractive than everyone else, _and_ they hunt in pairs.”

Dean glances at Cas, pulls the phone away from his ear. “May and Bob,” he mouths. Cas nods. Dean puts the phone back to his ear. “Okay, Sammy, thanks for the info. I think we might know who they are. They just invited us to a dinner.”

“Well, be careful, Dean. They look like humans, but they’re way faster and have crazy sense.”

“Like Spidey senses.”

“Dean—” Sam sighs.

“Yeah, I get you. I have a silver knife in the trunk, we’ll gank these bitches. You be careful too, y’hear?”

“Don’t worry, I’ve got Jodi,” Sam says with a grin in his voice. “She’ll protect me.”

“Better than you probably could protect her,” Dean scoffs. “See ya, bitch.”

“Bye, jerk.”

Cas crinkles his nose in confusion. “I do not understand why you and Sam insist on calling yourself mean names.”

“‘cause it’s fun,” Dean shoots back. “Takes pictures of that file with your phone and let’s get out of here.”

They bump into the medical examiner on their way out of the building. “We have all we need,” Cas says politely, scurrying past him as Dean blows ahead.

“If it’s a Vetala, we need to be really damn careful,” Dean says under his breath to Cas as they walk through the lobby and into the bright fall sun. “These things are fast, and strong—and really damn particular on how they’re killed.”

“I have a silver knife, in my pack,” Cas says, “and I know that it requires a twist of the knife to the heart. It will be… difficult.”

“Easy as pie, Cas,” Dean counters sarcastically. He doesn’t ask why Cas has a silver knife in his pack, or where he got it from. They share a significant, loaded look before tumbling back into the Impala.

 

* * *

 

 

Dean’s making pasta for dinner when Cas gets the text from May. Cas looks up from the pile of files they printed off from Cas’ phone, and waves his phone in the air. “They want to have dinner with us tomorrow.”

“Great. Tell them we’re free.” Dean loads a pile of noodles and sauce into a bowl and brings it to the table for Cas.

Cas bites his lip and frowns at the screen. “I don’t know, Dean. Is it really wise just walking into their nest like this?” He blinks at the pasta as Dean slides it in front of him. “Oh. Thank you.”

“Yup.” Dean licks an errant bit of sauce off his finger and grabs a bowl for himself. “We’ll go prepared, don’t worry. Silver knives, silver bullets if that somehow slows ‘em down… the whole nine yards.”

Pushing a pile of papers to the side, Cas twists his fork around the spaghetti noodles. “We can’t just show up with weapons.”

“‘course we can, if they’re hidden,” Dean says with a grin. He deposits himself at the table across from Cas, holding the bowl of pasta between his hands. “It’ll be fine, dude.”

“We’ll blow our cover, Dean.”

“No we won’t, not if we’re careful. C’mon, Cas, get with it. Hunters have to be sneaky every once in a while.”

With narrowed eyes, Cas says, “I _know_ how to be a hunter.”

Dean raises his hands defensively. “Sure, fine. But I know what I’m doing, okay? I’ve been doing this for almost three decades. You’ve been doing it for three seconds.”

Cas slams his fork down on the table with a clatter. “Why do you insist on belittling me in this? I know you’re mad that I left, I understand, but this—”

“I’m over that, okay? You left, whatever, it’s done. But don’t go getting it in your head that you’re some kind of master hunter who knows all the ropes, and won’t get himself killed by a stupid mistake,” Dean says, pointing an angry finger in Cas’ direction.

“I _knew_ that it was a Vetala killing those people. I also found the case in the first place. Doesn’t that count for something to you?”

“Sure, you can use a computer. Congratulations.”

Cas gives him an incredulous look. “Why can’t you admit that I have gotten more useful as a hunter?”

Dean rolls his eyes and takes a bite of pasta. “Fine. You’re more useful as a hunter. Happy?”

“No.” Cas glares at Dean. “And you’re not ‘over it’.”

“Excuse me?”

“Me leaving. You’re angry, and you won’t let me explain myself. You’re shutting it away, and stewing on it, and it’s passive aggressive, Dean.”

“ _I’m_ passive aggressive? Do you think I wanna be this pissed off, Cas? Do you think I wanna be angry at you?” He jabs his fork in Cas’ direction. “ _You_ chose to leave, _you_ chose to wreck this, and now I’m just here picking up the pieces for you.”

Cas frowns down at his untouched pasta. The silence hangs heavily over them. Dean scrubs a hand over his face, and gusts out a sigh.

“Fine, look, just… I’m sorry, okay? I know you were… going through shit. And you didn’t…” Dean frustratedly shakes his head. “I meant it. I don’t want to be this angry.” _And guilty,_ adds a traitorous voice in Dean’s head. “Can we just move on from this?”

“It’s healthier if we talk about it,” Cas says, the disapproval in his voice thick.

“Yeah, I know, just… I’m just trying to let bygones be bygones, okay? And it’s not like… it’s not completely _your_ fault you left, okay? I had something to do with it too. So let’s just… move on.” Dean rolls his eyes at Cas’ skeptically raised eyebrow. “As much as we can, anyway.”

Cas nods. He twirls a noodle around his fork with the utmost concentration. “I was hoping you’d notice a difference,” he says, softly.

Dean looks up.

“In how… capable I am, as a human. I was hoping it’d be… different than a year ago.”

Dean sighs, and closes his eyes briefly against the surge of that familiar ball of emotion that he hasn’t been able to quite untangle: self-hatred, guilt, hurt, regret… He focuses on pushing it down. When he finds his voice, he says, “It is different, Cas.” He feels a pang when Cas raises eyes, at the hope in them. “You’re doing fine, okay? Just… you’re capable.”

Cas’ shoulders slump. He nods; sighs, almost in relief. “Thank you, Dean.” He finally takes a bite of pasta.

“I mean, that’s what marriage is, right?” Dean says offhandedly. “Compromise and whatever.”

Dean regrets he said anything; but then Cas blinks, a small smile forming on his face, and Dean regrets nothing at all. “I suppose you’re right.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you wanna come yell at me on tumblr, i am [@wanderingcas :)](https://wanderingcas.tumblr.com)


	8. interlude; feb 2013

It should have been him.

It was supposed to be his redemption, closing the gates of hell: the one thing that Sam knew he could do with his life that was finally _good._ But instead it was his big brother Dean, once again sacrificing himself for Sam, as usual.

And of course, as usual, Dean remained determined and stubborn through each trials he had to complete. Even when he was on the bathroom floor retching whatever little food he tried to keep down that day, waving Sam away when he offered Dean water, or at least a cold towel. Even when he was obstinately ignoring the decline of his health, barking at Sam to just ignore it and chill out whenever Sam got concerned.

So, Sam gave Dean his wish. It made things more harmonious, anyway. He passed by the bathroom door and pretended he didn’t hear his brother sick on the floor. He ignored the coughing and subtle shaking that sometimes overcame Dean while they were riding in the Impala. He looked away when Dean cranked up the heat twice the temperature that he normally did.

It was like before, just ticking down the time until Dean went to hell again.

Except before Hell, Dean didn’t have an overly concerned angel perched on his shoulder.

Cas was the hardest thing to ignore about the whole situation; especially because he was worse than Sam when it came to worrying about Dean. Cas was always there like a second shadow: reaching out toward Dean as his body wracked with coughs and then aborting the motion a moment later when Dean glared up at him, lingering in front of the bathroom door, fist poised as if to knock but not carrying through the act, or when he simply stared at Dean’s turned back with worried eyes when he didn’t think anyone was watching.

Sam ignored the hushed conversations Dean and Cas would have when they didn’t think Sam was listening. The measured, concerned tone of Cas; Dean’s quick, harshly punctuated whispered words. The way those conversations would sharply end once Sam walked into the room. Cas and Dean would turn away from each other, not looking each other in the eye for the rest of the night.

It should have been Sam, suffering through the trials. It should have been him having nightmares that made him moan through the night, should have been Dean that was lying in his room with a pillow over his head, trying to block out the sounds of his brother suffering. It shouldn’t have been Cas standing in front of Dean’s door, a hand and a forehead against it, eyes squeezed shut, moving not an inch as he kept watch over him every night, all night.

It should have been Sam, that lost everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [extra long chapter coming soon, don't worry... also, this clarify some things for anyone? ;)]


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “A lake is a landscape's most beautiful and expressive feature. It is Earth's eye; looking into which the beholder measures the depth of his own nature.”
> 
> -Henry David Thoreau, Walden

Something about being human that Cas feels he will never get used to, and something he will always dread, is waking up.

Cas has seen Dean and Sam and other humans sleep. He’s seen them wake. It’s usually slowly, with their eyelids blinking open, their eyes unfocused before slowly coming to consciousness. Not with Cas.

With Cas, it’s like a bolt of lightning slamming through his nerves. Every time he wakes (if he’s ever able to finally sleep), it’s a jolt, a sudden bend of the waist that shoots him upright, eyes wide and awake and muscles tense.

It’s how he’s always woken up, since the first night he lost his grace. No matter what place he’s in: a borrowed bed, a shelter, a $19.99-per-night hotel room (or, in the current case, a strange model home in an unfamiliar bedroom), it’s the same fitful awakening.

He sits in an upright position in the bed, allowing his gasps to subside, for his breaths to become steadier. The light through the curtains is still grey, indicating the bare morning. Cas can distantly hear movement downstairs; Dean must be awake.

He scrubs a hand over his face, feeling the stubble on his cheeks, and sighs. He’ll have to shave soon. He hates shaving, along with the rest of the human routines he has to now endure.

As usual, he listlessly goes through the motions: stretching his sore muscles, brushing the sleepy film off his teeth, splashing cold water onto his face. He walks to his backpack to gather his things and pack; he’s halfway through when he realizes what he’s doing. Staring at the tattered book he was about to put into his backpack, he shakes his head and gusts a frustrated sigh.

Cas never stayed at a place for long. The longest was a week, and that was with a fellow hunter, Rick. They split a motel room in a town where they were hunting. Cas got along with him, unlike most people. He wore flannels every day, like Dean. His eyes crinkled in the corners when he smiled, like Dean. He talked about him and Cas pairing up, hunting as a team from then on. Rick was killed by the hunt, of course; a nest of vampires.

Cas didn’t try to pair up with another hunter after that.

So this habit of packing up his scant possessions at first light, it’s a bit difficult to break. It takes a quick minute to unpack everything back onto the bed: the few articles of clothing, the book that Sam lent him before Cas left the bunker.

Cas makes a mental note to give the book to Dean. He didn’t mean to take it from Sam in the first place. Didn’t mean to leave the bunker in such a rush.

 

He sits down heavily on the bed. He can hear Dean whistling downstairs as something sizzles on the stove. Dean often did this while Cas stayed in the bunker: made breakfast every morning at ungodly hours of the morning, genuinely enjoying it.

Cas squeezes his eyes shut against the inevitable tidal wave of guilt. He came to this hunt with a very specific goal in mind: explain things to Dean. Try to right his wrongs. Now, after Dean made it very clear that he wants nothing to do with Cas’ explanations, it seems as if he never can.

Placing the book firmly onto the bedside table, Cas sharply stands, forcing himself to start the day.

Cas descends the carpeted stairs fifteen minutes before Faith agreed to pick him up. Dean waves a spatula in greeting. Cas gives a small wave in return.

Cas has known this man for a good part of a decade, and yet at times, it feels uncomfortable to be in a room with him; especially now, as a human. His skin prickles, his heart-rate rises. When he was an angel, and his vessel reacted in such a way, he simply suppressed it. There’s not much he can do to combat it now, as he slowly lowers himself onto a bar stool at the kitchen island.

He stares at Dean’s back. He could once sense his heartbeat there.

“You want some breakfast?” Dean calls over his shoulder. The bacon in the pan gives a loud pop to emphasize.

“If you’re making enough,” Cas says.

Cas can practically hear Dean’s eyeroll. “Jesus, Cas, do you think I’m heartless? Of course I made enough.”

Cas folds his hands in front of him and says nothing. He scratches at a spot in the countertop. A plate of scrambled eggs, bacon, and toast is deposited in front of him moments later.

“Forgot to buy coffee yesterday,” Dean grunts as a way of apology. “I can go out and buy some while you’re on your date.”

Cas looks up from prodding at his eggs and frowns. “It’s not a date, Dean.”

“Whatever you say, dude. Just don’t forget to ask her about why we’re stuck here in the first place, okay?”

“I was planning on asking her about the killings,” Cas says, a little affronted. He watches as Dean sits across from Cas with his own plate of food, rolling up the sleeves of his red flannel.

At the flicker of Dean’s eyes to his, Cas clears his throat. “And we’re not ‘stuck here’. You’re free to leave anytime.”

“And leave you to fend for yourself, when you can’t even cook?”

“I can cook,” Cas protests, albeit unconvincingly.

“Oh yeah? By ‘cook’, do you mean having the ability to toast bread?”

“Perhaps.”

Dean emits a dry chuckle, tearing off a corner of toast and dipping it into the cheesiest part of the scrambled egg. “Nah, I’ll stay, Cas. If anything, to be your live-in chef.”

“So you’re saying you’ll stay to competently perform your husbandly duties,” Cas replies. He fights a grin when Dean barks a surprised laugh, the food nearly flying from his mouth.

“My ‘husbandly duties’?” he chokes. He laughs again when Cas doesn’t reply, just calmly takes another bite of bacon. “Sure, Cas, whatever. Being married is more than just makin’ sandwiches.”

“I’m not trying to imply that it’s not. Just that you’re succeeding.”

“In what? Our fake marriage? Whoop-dee-doo for me.”

“There are worse things to be successful at,” Cas says dryly. He takes an innocent bite of toast when Dean gives him an unconvincing glare. “This is good food, Husband.”

Dean sputters. “You don’t call a significant other by their _title._ ”

“Then how should I do it?” Cas asks, tilting his head.

“You’re doing this on purpose, you know.” Dean hides a smile behind his hand, scrubbing it over his mouth.

“Maybe.” He smiles at Dean, their eyes holding a beat too long; Dean’s eyes skitter away. When they return to Cas’ steady gaze, there’s a degree of vulnerability in them.

Cas holds the stare; feels that prickle on his skin. He prepares himself to explain further why he needs Dean to stay not just here with him, but beside him always; why Dean is not only a good fake husband, but why he would make a good real husband to anyone, and that Cas is sorry he treated Dean so poorly in the past, and that he would sit there for a thousand breakfasts complimenting Dean a thousand times if it only meant that things would be repaired between them.

He opens his mouth, to say all these things—which is the moment the doorbell gives an untimely ring.

Dean’s open gaze shutters; he turns back to the stove. “Your date’s here,” he says, curtly scraping the remains of the egg into the garbage.

Cas is too frustrated to even correct him again. He grabs his coat off the couch. “Thank you for the breakfast.”

Dean gives a wave over his shoulder. It’s all Cas knows he’ll get in way of a goodbye, so he answers the door, painting on a smile.

-

Faith doesn’t drive them far before they arrive at the lake. She is easy to make conversation with; Cas learns that she was born in the same house she now lives in (her parents left it to her when they retired to Florida), and that she worked at a marketing firm before going back to school for nursing. Cas is still getting acquainted with the types of careers humans can have, so he doesn’t inquire much into it.

He tries to concentrate on the conversation, but all he can think about is the tense set of Dean’s shoulders as he gave Cas a wave goodbye.

Parking a little ways from the lake, Faith announces, “Here!”, causing Cas to minutely jump. The passenger door creaks as Cas steps into the chilly fall air. His skin prickles from it.

“There’s a rough path around the lake, if you want to walk,” Faith says over the hood of the car. “Up to you, though.”

“I’m amenable to walking,” Cas says.

She smiles; a quick, jaunty thing. “All right then.”

Their shoulders brush as they walk along the path. Sunlight catches the tiny ripples of the lake, sparkling in Cas’ eyes. He shields them as he looks out over the water.

“You were right,” he says. “This is a beautiful lake.”

“Yeah,” Faith sighs, almost wistfully. “I love coming out here when I need to think.”

“You’re not worried about being alone this far away from the neighborhood, with the recent murders?”

“Well, sure, but if I didn’t do things just because I was afraid, what would life be?”

“I suppose that’s true,” Cas concedes.

“Can I be honest with you, Cas?” Faith stops in the middle of the path, looking suddenly nervous. She pulls at the sleeve of her thick sweater.

“I… yes?”

“I asked you here because, well… I don’t have a lot of friends. My shifts are long, and I’m ridiculously introverted, and… well. When I met you at May’s barbeque, I thought that we would make good friends. So I’m sorry if this is weird or awkward. I’m not really good at this.”

Cas smiles in what he hopes is reassuring. “I’m not, either.”

“Oh, good.” She returns the smile before she continues walking, her arms folded against the chill. “This neighborhood is so bizarre. Everyone is...incredibly fake. I wouldn’t even live here if I wasn’t too poor to move out of my parent’s house. It’s nice because I don’t have to pay a mortgage, but… I really hate living there. I can honestly say that I don’t like a single one of my neighbors.”

“They can’t be that terrible,” Cas says. He meanders around a large rock in the path.

“No, really, they are. I’m not shocked at all that they’re getting murdered. It’s probably some disgruntled person that’s sick of all their bullshit.” She looks at Cas with wide eyes. “Not me, though, I swear.”

Cas clears his throat. “Is there anyone… that you suspect?”

“May and her husband are kind of weird sometimes? But I don’t think they’d want the attendance at their stupid barbeques to go down, so they wouldn’t risk killing off people for that. There’s a couple of shut-ins down at the cul de sac. Not where you and your husband live, but the one that’s more north. I never see this one couple come out of their house, they’re kind of creepy.”

Cas nods. “I see.”

“Either way. Some of the people that got killed were kind of shut-ins themselves. A few of the victims were married, but the most recent victims? No one knew them very well. The last guy to get killed? He had just gotten a divorce.”

“Interesting.” Cas frowns at his boots. The victims being reclusive could explain the Vetala’s affinity for them. No one would immediately know that they’re missing, so they could feed as needed without getting caught. The same logic with married couples: if both are killed, then neither will report the other missing as quickly.

“I guess that’s why I’m a little worried,” Faith says. “Since I’m a shut-in as well.”

Cas shakes his head. “I wouldn’t worry. Dean and I know where you live; we can keep an eye on you.”

“Well, you can save me if I’m bleeding out I guess,” she says. At Cas’ confused frown, she adds, “Since you’re a doctor and all?”

“Oh. Yes. Well, and we can keep a lookout for suspicious behavior.”

“I guess.” Faith stops and jams her hands into her jean pockets. She looks out to the lake. “You know, I think those people that were murdered; that they were already dead.”

Cas blinks. He decides in that moment that he can’t keep up with humans’ shuffling conversations. “Oh?”

“Yeah. Loneliness kills people, you know. I see it every day, where I work. People whose spouses died from cancer, parents who lose their children; as they leave the hospital, they just get this _look._ Like it’s all just hopeless. The people who were murdered? They had that look.” She glances at Cas uncomfortably. “You too, actually. I mean, I thought…”

“What did you think?”

“I didn’t even know you were married, honestly. I never would have guessed it.”

Cas inwardly cringes. “I see.”

“But you seem really happy with Dean, so obviously, I was very off track.”

Frowning at the lake, Cas repeats, “Obviously.”

-

Dean is lying on the couch when Cas returns, files from the morgue propped onto his stomach, an empty coffee mug on the ground. Without looking at Cas, he asks, “Learn anything?”

Cas tosses his jacket onto the floor. “Nothing of importance. Maybe something about the victims. It’s hard to say.”

“Well, that’s something I guess.” Dean swings his legs around and sits up, leaning over the couch’s back. “What do you think about Faith?”

“I don’t… fully know what to make of her.”

“Yeah. Something’s off. I mean at first I thought it was because she was tryin’ to seduce you, which, may still be true, but… I dunno.” Dean shrugs. “I could be grasping at nothing.”

Cas shakes his head. He couldn’t even begin to explain the oddity of his and Faith’s conversation. Something about it made him feel… exposed. “I don’t think it’s nothing.”

“We’ll just keep an eye on her. She’s going to be at that dinner tonight, right?”

“I believe so.” Cas toes off a boot, a hand leaning against the wall for balance. “Something else she said struck me… about the victims. She told me that the last few victims were in relationships; albeit some rocky ones. Additionally, not many people knew the victims. The monster may target us next as a married couple who barely anyone in the neighborhood knows.”

“Makes sense,” Dean says. He taps the papers beside him. “That info checks out; all the victims before this were either not very well-known and married, or recently divorced. Whoever is doing this is targeting people that wouldn’t be missed very quickly.”

“That was my thought.” Cas moves toward the couch. “That is why us being a convincing married couple might help the monster target us.”

“Totally, dude,” Dean says distractedly, rustling the papers together as he cleans up a spot for Cas to sit.

“I feel as though I’m not pulling my weight in that way.”

Dean straightens. “Why, Cas?”

“I don’t think we’re convincing people that we’re in a relationship.”

Patting the couch, which Cas obeys and sits, Dean asks, “What else did Faith say?”

“Nothing. I just get the sense that she thinks as though we are… not permanent. Or serious.”

“Oh.”

“I think it’s my fault. I’m somewhat inept when it comes to faking a relationship.”

Dean waves a hand in the air. “Nah, you’re not inept. You’re just… not experienced.”

Cas nods, staring at his hands. He steels himself before saying, “Then I think we should practice.”

“Huh?” Dean looks at him dumbly.

“Being in a relationship. The basic things.”

“Like… uh… what?”

“Well, what is a basic romantic thing that humans do?”

Dean sputters. “You haven’t seen one romantic movie in your life? Or seen a freakin’ couple walking down the street?”

“So holding hands,” Cas says.

“Sure, Cas, holding hands is a basic romantic thing, sure.” He shifts in his chair. “So you’re saying we should, uh. Practice. For our relationship to be convincing.”

“Yes,” Cas says. “For the case.”

“Sure. Fine.” Dean clears his throat. “So we practice.”

“We practice,” Cas agrees. His hand twitches, almost on cue. Dean looks down at their hands, inches apart on the couch, like they’re loaded guns.

Dean finally gusts out a sigh and reaches forward, snatching Cas’ hand. The touch between them is dry and clammy. Dean’s skin is softer than Cas imagined it being against his own hand. They avoid each other’s eyes.

“What else?” Cas manages to say.

“Uh, well…” Dean coughs. “I guess people cuddle but… I’m not takin’ that leap this soon, dude, no offense.”

Cas nods and mentally side-steps the sudden stab of hurt. “We could sit more closely,” he offers. “We may have to do that at the dinner.”

“Uh. Sure.”

They both slide toward each other on the couch, an invisible line tugging them together. Cas can feel the heat of Dean’s skin against his arm. Dean situates their joined hands on top of his leg. Cas attempts not to melt into Dean’s side, as tempting as it is.

“Do angels even date?” Dean asks.

Cas turns; immediately regrets it when he realizes his face is mere centimeters from Dean’s. “Why do you ask?”

“You just seem really bad at this.”

Rolling his eyes, Cas says, “No, angels do not date, Dean.”

“Just askin’.”

Cas shifts, his arm bumping Dean’s. His hand is becoming sweaty in Dean’s palm. “Angels don’t normally form romantic attachments. Not like humans. It’s generally frowned on.”

“Oh. Well, that explains a lot.” Dean adjusts his hand in Cas’, their fingers interlocking tighter. Cas doesn’t mention that they probably could let go at this point; Dean doesn’t either.

“I didn’t have a lot of relationships either, growing up,” Dean says. At Cas’ incredulous look, he adds, “Don’t get me wrong, there were a lot of romantic… encounters, I guess you could call ‘em,” he says with a grin. “But actual relationships not so much.”

“It makes sense, with what you told me; with your father and you and Sam constantly being on the road.”

“Yeah. Besides Cassie, and I guess Nate in high school—” Dean gives Cas a brief look to gauge his reaction (Cas, for his part, keeps his face neutral), before clearing his throat uncomfortably. “Uh, yeah. Not a lot of relationships.”

Cas gives him a gentle squeeze in response. “I’m sorry to hear it.”

“Yeah, well, it is what it is.” Dean glances at Cas before looking away again. Cas continues staring at Dean’s profile.

Dean’s phone buzzes in his jeans pocket, shooting vibrations through their hands. As one, they break the contact and slide away from each other. Dean glances in Cas’ direction before flipping open his phone and putting it to his ear. “Hey, bitch, what’s up?”

Cas hears Sam’s long-suffering sigh on the other end. “There’s been another killing here. Is Cas by you?”

Dean puts it on speaker phone, for Cas’ sake. “Yeah, he’s here.”

“This victim is like the rest,” Sam says. “Middle-aged, divorced, lived alone. I think this Vetala has a pretty clear M.O.”

“I found similar information today,” Cas says. “The victims were either married or divorced. Never single.”

A tinny sigh comes from over the receiver. “Yeah. The patterns are pretty clear. I think whatever Vetala is killing in your area, they’re somehow connected to this one. I don’t know why yet, though. Just watch your backs, okay?”

“We’re fine here, Sam,” Dean says into the phone with a telltale wrinkle between his brows. “Just take care of yourself. And pull out if it seems too dangerous. Plenty of hunters in the area that you can get on this without going solo.”

“I’m fine, Dean,” is Sam’s distracted reply. “I’ll call with more details when I hear about them.”

“Sounds good. Bye, bitch.”

“Yeah, yeah, bye jerk.” Sam’s voice gets louder: “Bye to you too, Cas.”

“Bye, Sam,” Cas says too loudly into the phone, earning an exasperated sound from Dean.

They sit draped in silence for a few long moments. “When did May tell us to be there?” Dean asks.

“We have a few hours,” Cas replies.

“‘kay.” Dean smacks his knees with his palms before rising. “Well, I’m gonna check out the local library, see if I can get internet to research up on this Vetala thing. Maybe there’s more we can figure out.”

Cas nods, eyes falsely preoccupied with the tips of his boots, scuffed and dirty from the walking path around the lake. “I think that’s a good idea.”

“Cas.” Dean shifts from foot to foot. “Uh, there’s one more thing that… I think we should practice.”

“All right.”

“You gotta stand up though.”

With a sigh, Cas lifts himself to his feet. There’s barely a moment of steadying himself before Dean is grabbing him, arms circling around his stiffened shoulders.

Slowly, he relaxes into the embrace. He can feel Dean’s breath tickle the back of his neck, hot and quick. Cas slowly brings up his hands to clutch the back of Dean’s shirt, at the same time that Dean’s hand grasps the back of Cas’ neck.

Instead of the prickling in his skin that he expected from the touch, Cas’ nerve endings feel like warm liquid; he’s worried that he might literally melt into Dean’s arms. Cas closes his eyes and dares to bury his face on top of Dean’s shoulder. Dean smells like the pine-scented dollar-store soap that he uses.

Shockingly, standing there in silence, holding each other; Cas feels no awkwardness. He would rather the moment stretch on forever.

 _I regret everything,_ he doesn’t say. _I’m so sorry I left you, left… this._ He clutches Dean tighter. _I used to be able to feel your soul, and now I can’t, and it…_

Dean pulls back; clears his throat. His eyes look a bit misty. “Well, we’re ready to fake them out for that dinner now.”

“Yes we are,” Cas replies. He involuntarily shivers from the absence of Dean’s warmth. “I’ll… stay here while you’re at the library.”

“Yeah, good idea. Just don’t burn down the house or anything.” Dean’s joke falls a bit flat, his lips downturn in a frown, but Cas gives it a dry chuckle anyway.

“I won’t, Dean.”

Cas watches as Dean gathers the files, grabs the keys off the counter. He gives Cas a small salute before walking out the door. As soon as the door closes it’s like Cas’ strings have been cut; he collapses back into the couch with his head in his hands.

He doesn’t move again until he hears the Impala rumbling in the driveway, a couple of hours later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter was ridiculously hard to write. a huge shout out to woefulcas, galaxystiel, beefcakemish, and castielrisingabove for helping me with this chapter either through beta-ing or just talking out plot points - this story is literally taking a village.
> 
> also, good news! I'm done with the semester and have a month long break, so updates will be consistent for the next month. I am planning on posting once a week (maybe twice, if we're lucky). 
> 
> if you want to keep up with updates on this, or just yell at me in general, [find me on tumblr :)](https://wanderingcas.tumblr.com)
> 
> Happy Holidays! <3


	10. interlude; june 2013

One thing Sam was not prepared for was the radical change that occurred in Cas after becoming human.

Sam had seen cracks of humanity in Cas before. The way that he loved hamburgers (when he wasn’t focusing on every molecule), the way he always seemed rumpled and disheveled despite having the perfect capabilities of cleaning himself up, the bursts of all-too-human-emotion that occasionally shown through. It’s not like Cas wasn’t already hesitantly wearing humanity, like a new trench-coat he was experimenting with, but wasn’t sure of yet.

Even so, Sam could never envision how closed-off and…  _ unsure _ a fully human Cas would be.

Especially toward Dean. 

He became more introverted and withdrawn. He spent hours in his room, not even emerging when Dean cautiously knocked on his door, offering him meals. He made no noise whenever he was in his room; even when he used the bathroom or got water from the kitchen, Sam barely heard his footsteps. It was often that Sam forgot that Cas was even living in the bunker at all. 

Not Dean, though. Where Sam was forgetful of Cas’ presence, Dean was hyper-aware. Whenever they sat in the library, researching a case, Dean would flinch toward Cas’ bedroom if there was any sound at all emanating from it (Sam finally snapped at him one day when Dean half-stood at the sound of the heater switching on). 

Dean was always at Cas’ bedroom door, softly knocking, trying to coax him out like Cas was some kind of stray cat. When Cas finally emerged from the bedroom only mere days after becoming human, looking lost, Sam barely had time to say two words to him before Dean was making a beeline toward Cas, shirt and jeans and underwear in hand, saying, “Here Cas, wear mine, I’ll wash your stuff.” 

Dean knew when Cas needed water or food—Cas often forgot he needed nourishment. He set plates of food down in front of the door when he knew Cas would be hungry, and collected the barely touched plates afterwards. He monitored these needs closely; but also gave Cas the widest berth in the bunker. 

Where Dean and Cas once seemed inseparable, now one of them would leave whenever the other entered the room. The same Dean who was once so easy-going and jovial with Cas, clapping him on the shoulder and rattling off the jokes, stayed silent and non-intrusive in Cas’ rare company, as if afraid of scaring him off. 

Sam didn’t even notice how bad it had gotten until the day Cas finally appeared in the kitchen for breakfast. 

Sam watched silently over the rim of his coffee mug as Cas shuffled, hair astray and shirt hanging much too loosely on his ever-shrinking frame, to the coffee pot. Across the table, Dean watched him out of the corner of his eye while also failing to remain nonchalant and read the newspaper. 

Cas pushed the ‘on’ button and filled the coffee pot with water. Pouring it into the machine, he stared at it impatiently as it began to warm up. 

Sam cleared his throat, finally unable to stand the tension in the room. “So, uh… Dean, want to check out that case in Lawrence today?” 

“Uh-huh,” Dean replied distractedly, eyes still on Cas’ back.

“We haven’t accepted a hunt in a while,” Sam reminded him, gently but firmly. “Maybe it would be good to get out a bit. Maybe take…” He trailed off, head subtly tilted in Cas’ direction. 

Dean frowned; shook his head. “I don’t...” 

Cas turned and fixed the brothers with a hard stare. “I want to join you on a hunt,” he declared. It was the first sentence he spoke in a while.

Dean’s expression grew stony. “No, Cas. Bad idea. You literally just turned human weeks ago—you really wanna take that new mortality of yours out for a test drive and get killed?”

“I wouldn’t,” Cas grumbled, turning back to the coffee machine.

“Answer’s no, dude,” Dean said.

Sam shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He opened his mouth, to tell Dean that he was mother-henning too much, that maybe a hunt would be good for Cas—but whatever he was about to say was cut off with Cas’ sharp hiss of pain and the clattering of the coffee pot. 

In one smooth motion, Dean rose to his feet and took three large strides to Cas. He took Cas’ hand, to lead him to the sink to put some cold water on his burn, but Cas snatched it back quickly. 

As neutrally as he could, Dean explained, “You have to put something cold on it, dude. You’re burned.” 

Cas stared at him for a moment, then slowly turned on the sink and put his burnt fingers underneath the steady stream. He watched Dean with blank eyes as Dean put the coffee pot back into its place, examining the machine. 

“You didn’t put the filter in,” Dean explained, scooping a few spoons of coffee grounds into a filter and putting it in its place. “That’s why the water was dripping down clear.” 

Cas nodded. Dean took a step forward; Cas just seemed to tense up. “Can I look at your hand?” Dean asked.

Sam tried not to stare as Cas slowly extended his burnt hand, letting Dean gently run his fingers over the blistering skin. “You’ll probably need some ointment for this,” Dean explained. 

Cas shrugged. 

“Or ice.” 

“Ice,” Cas conceded with a sigh, still not meeting Dean’s eyes. Dean nodded, fumbling in the freezer until he withdrew an ice pack. Mumbling his thanks, Cas put the ice on his skin. They stood there for a moment.

Dean reached out, beginning to say Cas’ name; but as soon as his fingers brushed against Cas’ again, the moment was shattered. Springing back like he’d been shocked, Cas left the room as quickly as he came into it. 

Dean was left there standing, fingers still extended into empty air. Sam didn’t make a comment; he knew better than to make the situation more tense. 

When the coffee was done, Dean filled a mug—one with bees, that he bought Cas a week ago from some drug store—and brought it to Cas’ door. 

And as usual, Sam watched as Dean retrieved the empty mug when it was put outside a few hours later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you guys for sticking with this story! you're all saints in my eyes 
> 
> if you want to find me somewhere other than here, [i have a tumblr](https://wanderingcas.tumblr.com). come yell at me : )


	11. Chapter 11, Part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "All men want, not something to do with, but something to do, or rather something to be."
> 
> -Henry David Thoreau, Walden

Dean doesn’t drive to the library like he told Cas he would. He doesn’t even know where the damn library is. 

Instead he drives the way he came: out of the gated suburb, out of the city limits, until the  _ Welcome to Ithaca!  _ sign is a dot in his rearview mirror.

Hands clutching the steering wheel, white-knuckled, he barely breathes. Moves only to jam a finger into the tape deck, to blare Metallica at the loudest volume without going deaf.

Miles distance him and Cas;  _ now who’s running away? _ Dean thinks, childishly, petulantly.  _ Didn’t give you the chance this time, you bastard. _

But he’s not a man on the run. A man truly running wouldn’t still feel the phantom tingling of Cas’ hands clutching at his back, pulling him back to him. Or the warmth of his chest against his. No, a man truly divorced from the whole situation wouldn’t feel Cas’ hot breath on the back of his neck, tattooing his skin.

When he swerves into the shoulder, stopping Baby on the side of the deserted county highway, the dashboard clock has only ticked twenty minutes by. Dean’s forehead tilts, pressing into the wheel.

“I can’t touch him like that again,” he says to no one; to Baby, maybe. “It’s too goddamn much.”

Baby’s engine purrs sympathetically.

_ But it’s also not enough,  _ his mind insists. 

Because, well, he hasn’t felt that good in ages, has he? Being able to touch Cas like that, be actually connected to him for damn once without death or desperation lingering over them - and it felt  _ good  _ to have Cas’ hand in his. Awesome, even. 

He closes his eyes and sighs. Two options _ ,  _ a logical voice inside his head says (which sounds, suspiciously, like Sam’s voice). 

Option 1: keep driving. Call Sam. Switch cases with him, let him help Cas instead. Probably screw up the case in doing so, but at least it would throw Cas and all thoughts of him into the wind, like he should have done days ago.

Option 2: stay, help with the case, pretend to be Cas’ husband; hope like hell he can hide how much he likes it.

Because Dean’s not an idiot. He loved that damn hug, that long-anticipated closeness to Cas. That hug changed the whole game. There’s even a treacherous part of Dean’s mind that points out that Cas seemed to like that hug, too.

Dean sits up, resignedly sighs. It doesn’t matter; who had feelings for who, if they both did, or what sort of feelings they are, romantic or otherwise. It didn’t matter.

He languidly shifts Baby into drive.

Not after the goddamn….  _ event  _ that happened a year ago, not after Cas left.

He twists the Impala toward the direction he came; a captain steering his ship into the eye of the storm, a dying, stupid man deciding to end it that much quicker, gripping the wheel like it would do something.

He goes back to Cas.

* 

May’s house is no less intimidatingly friendly in the dark. Cas and Dean stand at the doorway, slightly chilled by their walk down the block. Acting on a flash of insanity, Dean reaches out to fix an errant strand of Cas’ hair. 

“What?” Dean asks to Cas’ strange look. “They can’t go thinking you were raised in a barn.” 

Cas raises his usual judgmental eyebrow. “Are you going to knock, or are we going to stand out here and freeze?”

“Yeah, yeah.” Dean stops, a hand poised in the air. “Hey, remember purgatory?” 

“Yes, I do.” 

Dean jams his finger into the doorbell. “Yeah, well, I liked it better.” Dean catches a quick grin on Cas’ face before the door swings open.

May stands before them, in all her pastel-colored glory. It’s a bright green dress this time, one that burns Dean’s eyes. “Well there you two are!” she cries. “Come in, it’s freezing!” 

Dean shuffles into the warmth after Cas, kicking off his shoes hurriedly because it’s probably polite. He catches a whiff of pie. His mood slightly improves.

“Your house smells better than it did before,” Cas bluntly says. Dean trips over his boot. 

“Thank you, dear,” May says with a broad smile, looking like she’s genuinely flattered. “Everyone’s in the living room, if you want to join them. I’m just going to wrap up a couple of things before we eat.” 

Dean leans in close to Cas’ side as May leaves the foyer. “What if I don’t want to join them?” he mutters into Cas’ ear.

Turning his head, smiling patiently, Cas says, “But husband, we have to.” 

“Dude. How many times do I have to tell you? Pick a different pet name, Jesus.” 

“Fine.  _ Darling _ .” Cas pats him brusquely on the shoulder before walking toward the living room. 

Dean fights a blush and his brain temporarily goes offline at the thought of how much he actually  _ doesn’t  _ mind that term of endearment. It quickly boots back up when Cas is about to walk through the threshold of the living room. “Whoa hey, Cas, wait.” He grabs Cas’ upper arm.

“What?”

“We need a plan, don’t you think?” Dean asks, voice pitched low. “I mean, for all we know, May and her husband could be the Vetala we’re looking for. We gotta play this smart.” 

Nodding, Cas glances toward the kitchen, where May disappeared. “I think it would be advantageous to find out more about them. And to maybe slip away, explore their house.” 

“Good plan. And we need a signal in case we  _ do  _ confirm that they’re the creeps who are killing people.”

“All right. If you find that out, you can just tell me.” 

“No, Cas, we need a  _ signal. _ How ‘bout, uh…” 

“‘Run’?” Cas offers.

“You’re the honest-to-God worst.”

With a small grin, Cas says, “Fine. Our signal can be one of us calling the other a term of endearment. Babe, for example.” 

“Or  _ darlin’ _ ,” Dean drawls with a grin. 

Rolling his eyes, Cas shrugs out of Dean’s grip and completes his journey into the living room.

Dean follows him, getting hit with a wall of people chatting as soon as he crosses the doorway. The room is similar to their own model home’s living room: grey, sterile, not many elements to make it cozy. There aren’t any pictures on the end tables or fireplace mantel to indicate that any one particular person lives there; by the look of Cas’ discerning eyes sweeping the same areas that Dean looked at, he also finds this suspicious. 

They catch a glance for a second before being swarmed by a couple they met at the barbeque. Dean recognizes them, but for some reason can’t remember their names. 

“Remember us?” the wife beams. She gestures between her and her husband. “Jerry and Jari?” 

“Oh yeah—how could we forget you guys?” Dean asks in the most un-ironic way he can, holding out a hand for Jerry to shake. “How have you been?” 

“Oh fine, we’re fine. Are you two settling into the neighborhood?” 

Dean tries not to stiffen too much when Cas’ arm winds around Dean’s waist, in an obvious attempt to mirror Jerry and Jari’s coupley stance. “We love it here,” Cas says, albeit flatly.

“We sure do,” Dean agrees, his own arm going around Cas’ shoulders. He rests his head against Cas’ for good measure. “Nothing like the suburbs to settle down in.” 

“We agree, obviously,” Jari says. “And it’s safer than the city, you know? Well, except for recently, with all the—”

Jerry laughs, pulling his wife tighter to his side. “Now, honey, let’s not talk about that when we’re having a party!” He hooks his thumb over his shoulder. “Just earlier some people were talking about the, uh,” he lowers his voice, “ _ murders _ , and May popped out of nowhere and gave us a telling off.” 

“Did she,” Dean mutters, glancing at Cas. 

“Have you met everyone here?” Jari asks. 

Dean and Cas both look over the room. Dean recognizes everyone save for an older couple in the corner. To avoid anymore socializing, Dean lies, “Yup, looks like it.” 

“Anyone need anything?” May’s face pops up over Jerry’s shoulder. “Cas, Dean, drinks?” 

“A beer,” Dean says hopefully as Cas says, “No.” Dean elbows Cas in the ribs. Cas sighs and amends, “Water would be fine.” 

“Coming right up!” May chimes as she bounces away.

“Don’t forget you’re human on me now,” Dean mutters to Cas. 

Cas elbows him in return. “Maybe I’m simply not thirsty.” 

“So, Jari and Jerry,” Dean says brightly. “Why don’t you say we be naughty for a second and talk about the murders? Cas here is worried about things about go bump in the night and needs a little bit of reassurance that he’s not the next target, don’t you, honey?”

Cas glares at Dean, then stares at Jerry and Jari. “The nightmares are oh so terrifying,” he says, completely deadpan.

“Well I don’t think you need to worry about anything,” Jari says, voice pitched low. “I heard from my friend who works in the station that the Feds are getting involved—just a couple of agents were visiting the morgue to investigate the bodies yesterday.” 

Dean exchanges a look with Cas. “You don’t say.”

“And the people murdered were recluses anyway,” Jerry says with a wave of his hand. “Everyone around here knows you by now. We’ll keep an eye on your house for you guys and make sure nothing happens.” 

“Well that’s nice of you,” Dean says. He takes the beer that May pushes into his hands; he hadn’t even noticed her materialize beside him. “Oh, thanks.” 

After some more conversation and two more beers, Dean and Cas manage to ditch Jerry and Jari by pretending to be interested in going to talk to a couple across the room. As they’re passing the exit into the hallway, Dean tilts his head to signal Cas to follow. After a passing glance toward the room, Cas obeys.

“What are we looking for?” Cas whispers, setting his water down on a small table in the hallway. 

“Anything abnormal. Vetala usually don’t stick around in one spot for long, Whenever I tried to ask May at the barbeque how long she and Bob have lived here, she kept avoiding the question.” Dean opens his jacket and fishes into a hidden pocket, halfway withdrawing his silver knife. 

“Dean!” Cas hisses. “Don’t just—”

“I’m not taking it out, chillax. Just double-checking.” Dean closes his jacket and pats the pocket. “See? Safe and sound.” 

Cas gives him a skeptical look before ascending the stairs. “Should we split up?”

“Nah. House isn’t that big, shouldn’t take more than a couple of minutes to scout it out.”

They find the master bedroom at the end of the upstairs hall. The house’s layout is very similar to Cas and Dean’s model home; Cas stops in the doorway and frowns.

“They haven’t changed anything from the house’s basic structure,” he says as Dean looks under the bed.

“What does that matter?”

“Most humans nest, so to speak. Make something their own. The color of the walls, the carpet, even the layout of the furniture—it’s all synonymous with our model home.”

“Huh. Good point.” Dean opens the walk-in closet and peers in. “Everything is so friggin’ tidy, too. Either one of them is a clean freak or they don’t spend much of their time here.” 

The other two bedrooms yield similar results: plain, barely decorated past a few picture frames of generic paintings on the walls, no personal touches. Dean is beginning to think that Cas has a point. 

“Bathroom, then we’ll go back downstairs,” Dean says to Cas. The conversation downstairs sounds like it’s getting subdued: a tell-tale cue that people are getting hungry and dinner is starting soon. 

“I want to look at the master bedroom one last time,” Cas whispers back. He’s gone before Dean can protest. With a grumble, Dean pokes around at the bathroom, equally pristine to the rest of the house. Cabinets show nothing more than a few generic medications, tampons, toilet paper—nothing out of the ordinary. He pulls back the shower curtain and sighs at the empty, unexciting tub. 

“Well, if you guys are killers, you sure do clean up well,” Dean grumbles. 

He freezes when he hears the creaking of stairs. He hears May saying to someone, “Feel free to use the bathroom upstairs! The one down here is out of order, unfortunately.” 

“Shit,” Dean snaps. He slips out of the bathroom and dashes across the hall to the master bedroom, closing the door and saying to Cas’ wide-eyed look, “We gotta get back down there, man. I think May is coming back upstairs.” 

Cas drops the book he was holding back on the nightstand, following Dean back toward the door. Dean’s hand is on the doorknob when they hear footsteps approaching, and May saying, “I’ll be down in a minute, I just need to grab something!” 

“ _ Damn it _ .” Dean whirls around and grabs Cas’ arms. He pulls Cas in toward him, close enough to feel his breath on his cheek. “Follow my lead, okay?”

Nodding minutely, Cas unconsciously licks his lips. Dean takes a breath, temporarily dwells on how stupid his plan is, and plunges. 

Cas’ lips are softer than Dean expected, albeit stiff with shock. They relax in almost an instant, and Cas falls into Dean’s chest. In a moment of insanity, Dean decides to wrap his arms around Cas’ shoulders and deepen the kiss for good measure. He hears a moan catch in Cas’ throat. 

“Oh! Um—”

Dean breaks away, reluctantly, to turn and see May gaping in the doorway. Cas finds his voice before Dean and says an awkward, “We’re sorry.” 

“That’s… that’s okay!” May laughs nervously. “When Bob and I were first married we couldn’t keep our hands off each other. I just…” She shifts from foot to foot. “Maybe not… in my bedroom?”

“Sure, uh, sorry,” Dean finally snaps to attention, pulling fully away. Cas tilts a bit at the loss of Dean. “Just uh, got caught up in the moment, you know? We forget where we are sometimes.”

May laughs again. “Well, that’s okay! I—” She turns at the sound of the bathroom door opening. Faith comes out, wiping her hands on her shirt. 

“Hey guys,” she says, unaffected by the awkward tension. “May, do you have a hand towel?”

“Of course!” May practically sprints at the chance to get away. She pulls a hand towel out of the cupboard in the hallway and hands it to Faith. “Dinner’s soon, so all of you come down soon!” With a fleetingly nervous smile at Dean and Cas, she scurries downstairs.

“Huh. She’s acting weird,” Faith comments. Dean shrugs; Faith gives them an odd look before ducking back into the bathroom. 

Dean avoids Cas’ eyes. “So… uh. Sorry about that, dude.” 

“It was a good cover. I think we surprised her more than made her suspicious.”

Dean gives him a look. Cas say this all so calmly, even though his upper lip is still shiny with Dean’s kiss, hair still ruffled from Dean putting his hands through it. “Well I’m glad I didn’t freak you out, I guess,” Dean finally manages to say.

“It’s not how I expected our first kiss to go, but nonetheless.” Cas is almost out the bedroom door when he seems to realize what he said, and pauses. “What I meant was, that, at some point we would likely have to kiss to make things… convincing. I didn’t mean—”

“It’s whatever Cas,” Dean says with a wave of his hand. “Let’s get downstairs before we have to make out in front of every house guest, okay?” Pushing past him, Dean hurries back down to the living room, blocking out the absolute panic going through his mind that sounds a lot like  _ you kissed Cas you kissed Cas you  _ idiot  _ you kissed Cas— _

The bump of the silver knife against his chest as he stumbles down the stairs is his reminder that he’s on a case, that he has to keep his head clear. That he can’t dwell on how great that kiss was, or how every cell in his body is shouting at him to turn around, go back, take Cas’ face in his hands and kiss him again, this time more thoroughly and completely. To throw away the six years of the bullshit dancing around each other and the issues of the past year and just get the damn show on the road already. 

But that’s not reality, and things aren’t solved that easily. It’s a  _ case _ , he reminds himself strongly, and he can’t get swept up into this reality that isn’t even his. He has to keep his head clear.

“Dean!” He almost jumps out of his skin when a strong hand lands on his shoulder. He forces a smile in Bob’s direction as the too-friendly neighbor says, “So you work at that power plant by Cayuga, huh?”

“Uh, yup.” Dean straightens and tries to know what the hell he’s talking about. “Just got hired on there.”

“I got a buddy that works the day shift there. John Lanier?”

“Name doesn’t ring a bell. Guess we didn’t cross paths yet.” In the corner of his eye, Dean sees Cas descend the stairs. His damn hair is still messed up. He tries not to let it affect him that Faith is close behind, probably having just made some kind of joke, because Cas is smiling at her.

“Well, look out for him, and tell him that Bob says hi, yeah?”

“Sure.” Dean’s eyes follow Cas brushing past him. 

“And you guys are probably having a hard time with all those protests going on—the pressure to convert to burning coal instead of natural gas? John was telling me all about it. Did you have any issues with that in the last plant you worked at?”

Dean narrows his eyes at Faith following Cas into the living room, at the way she brushes a hand against Cas’ arm to get his attention. 

“Dean?” 

He blinks at Bob. “Oh. Sorry. Yeah, we had the same issues. Lots of pressure for that… coal conversion, you know?”

Bob raises an eyebrow. “Yeah,” he says slowly. 

“I’m just going to catch my, uh, husband, okay? Forgot to tell him something.” Dean flashes a smile at Bob before making a quick getaway. 

Catching up to Cas and Faith, he follows them closely into the dining room. Faith is telling a story of what happened to her that day in the hospital; Dean can tell that she’s flirting as hard as she possibly can, complete with hair flips and batting eyelashes. 

Dean digs his fingernails into his palms. What the hell is she doing flirting with a married man, of all people? And how does she even know that Cas is into chicks at all for that matter? Cas isn’t making it any better, smiling at her with that damn gummy smile and giving her his full attention. 

Dean can’t even fault Faith; Cas has a magnetism and kindness that has always attracted people to him. Especially women, even though Cas has been normally clueless to it. Usually Dean can ignore it. But something about being fake married to him is making her flirting prickle his skin. 

He mentally kicks himself. This is going too far. From that hold handing him and Cas were doing earlier, to that kiss, to him now acting like a jealous husband… he needs to get grounded into reality again.

May has made a buffet style out of the dining table—a little bit of everything, from the looks of it. There are casseroles that Dean can’t even hope to recognize scattered with rolls and various salads. May squeezes past people into the room and claps her hands together. 

“Okay, everyone!” she calls for attention. “Get your food, feel free to sit wherever—living room, here, back porch if you can handle the cold!” She pauses for the polite laughter. “And then we’ll get to playing games!” 

“Games?” Dean grumbles under his breath. He searches for Cas. He’s already across the room, picking up a plate hesitantly, leaning in to hear Faith describe the foods to him. 

Dean grinds his teeth. Alright. Enough of this. 

“Hey guys!” he says, falsely cheerful, rounding the table to get right behind Cas. Faith steps out of the way. He puts an arm around his waist and hooks a chin on Cas’ shoulder, just to be a shit about it. “Anything look good to you, babe?”

He can feel Cas stiffen under his touch. “The salads look all right. Faith was pointing out a salad that she brought.” 

“Oh yeah?” Dean gives her a forceful smile. “Which one is yours? Oh, that one, huh. Looks great. I’ll be sure to try it. Cas, make sure to try Faith’s salad.” 

“You need to let go of me if I’m going to try anything,” Cas says in a flat tone.

Dean obeys, backing away and getting a plate of his own. He stays close in Cas’ orbit as they get food, intentionally putting himself between his fake husband and Faith. He steers Cas toward the living room when they’re done getting food (Dean doesn’t even know what he has on his plate, just dished things blindly), sitting both of them down in a loveseat. The living room is still empty; they were the first to get food.

Cas nudges him with his leg. “Is everything okay?” 

“Sure it is. Why wouldn’t it be?” Dean takes an aggressive bite of dinner roll.

“Just…” Cas shrugs and pokes a fork into his collection of salads. “You’re acting weird.”

“Faking a marriage is stressful, okay? And I should have picked a career I actually know how to talk about. Bob was going on about coal to me earlier.” 

“Was it about the power plant strike? Faith was mentioning that to me earlier and was wondering if it made an impact on your work.”

Dean growls, “Well, Faith just seem to know everything, doesn’t she?”

“So something is wrong,” Cas says. 

“No, just…” Dean sighs and takes a bite of what he thinks is a roast. “Don’t trust her.” 

“Why, because she is quote-on-quote, flirting?” 

Dragging a hand down his face, Dean says, “Cas, we’ve been over this. You don’t  _ say  _ the quotation marks. And yeah maybe it’s kind of bullshit that she’s so obviously flirting with a married dude but that aside, I dunno…” Dean glares in Faith’s direction as she walks into the living room. “Call it a hunter’s intuition.” 

“You have to be nice,” Cas reminds him with a tap of his leg to Dean’s. “She’s been giving us valuable information.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean grumbles. He fakes a smile at Faith as she walks by for good measure.

Jerry and Jari plop on the couch next to his and Cas’ loveseat. “Isn’t May’s cooking amazing?” Jari gushes as she gets herself settled against the cushions. “She always makes a huge conglomerate of things so it’s never boring.” 

Dean eyes the variety of foods he picked out, all bleeding together on his plate. “It sure is interesting,” he finally says.

“The salads are enjoyable,” Cas says politely.

“Are you a vegetarian, Castiel?” Jari asks.

“No, but my diet often lacks in vegetables. I’m trying to supplement.” 

“Hey, I feed you plenty of vegetables,” Dean protests. “There was spinach in the pasta I made you last night.” 

“The sauce was also mostly cheese and cream,” Cas volleys.

“Well you liked it, so don’t gripe.”

Jerry and Jari chuckle nervously at their argument, heads bent toward their food. Dean realizes that, unintentionally, Cas and Dean are bickering like a quintessential old married couple.

He spears a potato and chews frustratedly. They need to gank this monster and get off this case.

May and Bob join them moments later, pulling dining room table chairs to sit in front of them. Dean decides to take the opportunity. He straightens and clears his throat. 

“So, May and Bob, how long have you guys lived around here?”

Cas shifts next to him and stares down at his salads, pretending not to be  _ too  _ interested.

“Well…” May taps a finger against her chin. “I’d say about six months? We’re like you two, new to the neighborhood.” 

“Huh.” Dean exchanges a glance with Cas. “Where’d you move from?”

“Texas,” Bob says easily, tearing a roll with his teeth. “Have you guys tried these rolls? They’re  _ amazing _ —May makes them herself.” 

“Yup, they’re great,” Dean says. “But why the move? Was it a job thing?”

Bob stares at him, setting down his fork onto his plate. There’s a minute twitch of a muscle in his cheek before he breaks into an easy smile. “Like you two, it was a career move. And a change of his scenery.” 

“Uh-huh. Sure, makes sense.” Dean eats some of Faith’s salad to try and keep it casual.

“I want to hear more about your job at the plant,” Bob says with a discerning stare. “What exactly is your role there?” 

Dean takes a hard gulp. Shit. “Uh. Well.” The silence stretches; Jerry and Jari’s eyes are on him now, as well. 

“He’s an operator,” Cas quickly cuts in. “But he doesn’t like to talk about it.” 

_ For fuck’s sake, Cas,  _ Dean wants to say. Instead: “Uh, yeah. Don’t like to talk about it because… I was demoted. That’s why we had to move. Issues at the other power plant… place.” He ducks his head to eat more of his salad.

“That’s too bad,” May says sympathetically. “And Cas? What’s your speciality in medicine?”

Dean grips his fork tighter. He wonders if the prying questions from May and Bob are more than just coincidence after May found them snooping around in her bedroom. 

“Pediatrics,” Cas says easily. “I got a degree in family medicine and decided to specialize in pediatrics.” 

“Wait, I’m stationed in the pediatrics wing,” Faith chimes in. “I don’t see you on the charts.” 

Cas clears his throat. “Ah, um. I practice under the name Novak, not Dean’s last name.” 

“Huh.” Faith takes a sip of water. “I don’t remember seeing that name, either.” 

“Well he’s new,” Dean says with a hardened edge to his voice, glaring in her direction. “Not a lot of patients or cases yet.”

Faith lowers her water and stares right back. “Well, whatever you say.”

May laughs to break the tension. “I’m sure that’s what it is! Did you get enough to eat, Castiel? Salads aren’t enough to make you feel full, you know.” 

“I’m fine,” Cas says, “but I actually would love another water.” He hands his plate to Dean and stands. “I’ll be back.” 

Dean’s eyes follow his retreating back. When he turns back to the group, he sees that Faith is doing the same. He glares in her direction until she meets his eyes. She stares back challengingly.

_ Crazy bitch,  _ Dean projects, knowing he has to be a gentleman and keep his cover from being blown, but would love nothing more than to corner her and ask what the hell her problem is.

She breaks Dean’s gaze and stands. “I think I’m going to get a drink too. Water is in the kitchen, right?” 

“I have a Brita filter on the counter,” May says. 

“Good.” With a sickeningly sweet smile at Dean, she walks in the direction Cas disappeared. 

_ Hell  _ no. She’s not getting the better of that exchange. Without explanation, Dean deposits the plates on the couch cushion next to him and stands, weaving in between May and Bob’s chairs to get through. He can feel Bob’s eyes on him as he leaves. 

He marches down the hallway, all but muttering to himself. 

He’s almost reached the kitchen when he feels it.

A sharp pain in his head, like he’s been struck on the back of his skull. With a curse, he turns to face his attacker. No one there. He turns to continue walking when it happens again; more intensely, this time spreading across his whole head. It feels like his brain’s on fire. 

The sensation of  _ not right _ , the hunter’s instincts that tells him this isn’t an aneurysm or migraine but an  _ attack,  _ bursts him into action. 

He needs to get to Cas. He needs to warn him.

The pain intensifies; his thoughts become muddled. He has a moment of clarity to keep walking forward, walk toward where Cas is, before another jolt of pain brings him to his knees. 

He’s in so much pain, that he forgets Cas is human. Forgets that praying desperately, that screaming a litany in his head because he can’t speak— _ Cas, please, Cas _ —will fall on empty air. 

The last thing he’s able to do, before falling to the ground, is withdraw his silver knife. It clatters to the hardwood floor next to him, loudly ringing in his ears, before he loses consciousness. 

_ Cas.  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so i'm being a little weird and splitting this chapter into two parts. one reason being it just got really long and i wanted to break it up so i posted something, and two because it switches to cas' perspective in the second part and this seemed logical.
> 
> also.... i was told by an anon (unmaliciously!) that i don't often employ the use cliffhangers.... so this is me being evil and changing my style : )


	12. Chapter 11, Part II

Cas is filling his glass from the tap at the kitchen sink when he feels it: a pervading sense of _wrong_.

He turns to assess the room; the kitchen is empty except for him, silent except for the sound of the water splashing against the sink. But the feeling hooks into him, compels him to turn off the tap and wait.

There’s a loud clang outside the kitchen door in the hallway, the sound of something heavy falling soon after. He places the water on the counter and quickly goes toward it.

There’s a moment of paralyzing, freezing-in-his-veins fear after he opens the door. Dean is on the ground, sprawled and unmoving, the silver knife on the ground next to him.

The fear immobilizes him for only a moment; the quick shuffling of thoughts only distract him for a second ( _Is he dead? What if he’s dead? What will I tell Sam? What will_ I _do? Who killed him? What—)_ before he snaps into action. He sprints to Dean, turning him over on his back. He learned brief emergency medical training from one of his hunter friends after he was completely useless in a similar situation. He presses two fingers to Dean’s neck—his pulse is there, strong but rapid.

He slaps his cheeks to get Dean to regain consciousness. “Dean. _Dean_.”

Dean moves his head back and forth, moaning, but doesn’t open his eyes.

Pocketing the knife under his own jacket, Cas quickly assesses their surroundings. They’re alone in the hallway indicating that whoever attacked Dean already fled. The silver knife on the ground is an indication that Dean thought there was an imminent threat to fight against, yet there are no weapons nearby that suggest what Dean was attacked with. Cas holds up Dean’s head and assesses it for injuries, finding none. No blood on the floor either, which makes something tight in Cas’ chest unfurl.

Hooking his arms underneath Dean’s, he drags him to May’s downstairs bathroom. It’s cramped, but it has a door that locks and gives Castiel time to think about what in the world to do. He props Dean up against the wall and crouches in front of him, shaking him.

“Dean. Can you talk?”

Dean groans in reply.

Cas holds out two fingers, touching them to Dean’s forehead. He’s already closing his eyes and pushing his grace toward Dean, to find out what the problem is, when he feels the emptiness hallowed out in his chest. Feels the lack of anything inside of him. Dropping his hand, an unsettling feeling in his stomach rises to his throat.

“Dean,” he tries again. “You need to tell me what happened. Were you attacked? Are you sick?”

“Hurts,” Dean grits out through clenched teeth. He raises a hand and clumsily gestures to his chest. “Here.”

“Something internal? Like a heart attack?” Cas asks. He remembers Sam continuously griping about Dean’s affinity for hamburgers, and how all that cholesterol and sugar will catch up to him one day and blow his heart up—

“No,” Dean gasps. “It’s not physical. Someone fucking…” He tries to sit up, foot slipping against the bathroom tile and knocking him back into the wall. “It’s in my head.”

“A psychic attack,” Cas guesses.

Dean nods weakly. His body scissors in half without any warning, and he grabs his stomach, gasping out in pain, shouting, “Sam! Goddamnit, _no_!”

Cas grabs Dean’s arm, another hand tapping his leg nervously, as he watches Dean shake and cry through the pain. He just hopes no one in the living room can hear Dean.

Taking both of Dean’s shoulders, he shakes Dean to attention. “Dean. Sam isn’t here; he’s in Sioux Falls with Jody, he’s completely fine.”

“I see him dying,” Dean whispers. “I can hear you, Cas, but I’m seein’... I can see him dying.”

“Then keep listening to me,” Cas insists. “We’re going to leave this house, all right? We’ll get you back home and figure it out. We’ll call Sam.”

“Sam…” Dean closes his eyes and wetness dots his eyelashes. “I let my baby brother die. That’s why all this shit happened.”

“Dean—”

“And I tortured those people in Hell. That’s what I’m seeing now, Cas. All those people on the rack begging for me to stop, and I did it anyway, so _I_ wouldn’t feel the pain. I was so goddamn selfish.”

“But then I saved you, Dean. I pulled you out. Remember that.”

“I can’t remember that part,” Dean says with a shaky breath. “Just the bad stuff. I’m feeling it all.” He winces. “I’m remembering… god damn it, I’m even remembering Danny.”

“Danny?” Cas asks.

“And physical stuff, too,” Dean says, words pushing together, “like the first time I got shot. I can feel it like it just happened.”

“Maybe the Vetala used a curse,” Cas says, sitting back on his heels. “That means they know we’re hunters, and we need to get you out of here now.”

Dean holds his head between his hands. “I can’t see where we are,” he bites out. “ _Fuck_.”

“I’ll guide you.” Cas grabs both his hands and pulls him to his feet. “Try to stay calm until we get out of the house; you can hang onto me the whole time.”

With a jerky nod, Dean grabs onto Cas’ arm and leans into him for support. He looks paler, sicker.

“What are you seeing now?” Cas asks.

Dean admits softly, “I’m seeing you die.”

“I’m not dying,” Cas says firmly. “I’m not going anywhere.” He unlocks the door and pulls Dean forward.

The hall is still empty; Cas can hear muted voices in the living room. He half drags, half walks Dean toward the front door.

“Where are you going?”

Cas momentarily closes his eyes against the jolt of panic. He turns to Faith, who is standing with a glass of water in her hand.

“Dean ate something he doesn’t agree with,” Cas explains as neutrally as possible. “I’m going to take him home to rest.”

Faith clucks and reaches forward, putting a hand to Dean’s forehead. Every instinct in Cas rises in him and he has to resist smacking her hand away.

“He’s really burning up,” Faith says. “Poor guy.”

“Must have been the salad,” Dean mutters from where he hangs off Cas’ arm.

Cas resists rolling his eyes. “At any rate, I’m going to get him home.”

“Yeah, of course. I’ll let May know. If you guys are low on supplies I can come by later with whatever you need, drug-wise.”

“I’m sure we’ll be fine,” Cas insists, shifting toward the door.

“‘kay well… let me know.” Faith smiles, a small and nervous flash of it.

Cas leads Dean through the door frame, resolutely closes it behind them.

“How are you?” Cas murmurs to Dean as he leads him down the sidewalk. He realizes belatedly that he forgot his coat; the chilly wind pokes through the threads in his sweater.

Dean is quiet, yet still conscious. Cas asks his question again, this time jostling his shoulder.

“Fine,” Dean snaps.

“What are you seeing now?”

“Nothing.”

“You mean that you’re better?”

“No. Leave it alone.” Dean’s words are slurred; he pulls away and stumbles over a patch of ice on the sidewalk. His breathing is becoming heavier. “I need to sit down.”

Cas guides him to a patch of grass. Dean pulls away from his touch. Although it’s dark, with only the streetlight’s glare washing the concrete street, Cas feels exposed and wants to get Dean to safety as soon as possible.

“Dean,” Cas says gently, bending down next to him. “We need to get to the house.”

The only indication that Dean is in any pain is that his shoulders are shaking and his hands aren’t remaining steady where they rest against his knees.

“Dean. We need to go.”

He finally opens his eyes. They see right through Cas. “Don’t go.”

“I’m not going without you, Dean. I’m going to help you get there.”

“You know why Cas left, Sammy?”

Cas freezes. “Dean—”

“And don’t give me that bullshit that he wanted to hunt and I wouldn’t let him, or whatever. I know it was my fault. I didn’t do right by him, and he left.”

Cas licks his dry lips. “Dean, you’re hallucinating.”

“He left and I don’t even know where he is. All I have is this goddamn note.” Dean’s hand goes to his left jeans pocket, patting it. Cas can hear the paper crackle. “It’s proof that I fucked up, Sam. So stop telling me it ain’t my fault.”

Cas stands and stumbles backward when his feet slip on the same patch of ice. He knows the note Dean is referring to. It’s the same note that he wrote out of anger, spite, and the same note that he tore in half and threw into the garbage minutes after he wrote it, before packing his things and leaving the bunker for good.

It’s the note that made him realize how twisted, how destructive his newfound human feelings were and how important it was that he leave and suffocate those feelings before they affect Dean.

But they did, anyway. Because he can’t even throw away a note correctly.

“Dean,” he says again, voice cracking. “Dean, we need to keep moving.”

Dean looks up from where he’s staring at the ground; with rapid blinks, he stares up at Cas like he’s just noticing his presence. “What happened?”

“You blacked out temporarily,” Cas lies. “Are you still in pain?”

Dean winces and rubs his arm. “Yeah. I’m remembering when I broke my arm in high school, now. Son of a bitch.”

“Can you stand?”

In reply, Dean rises to his feet, albeit unsteadily. “I can make it.” He subconsciously pushes his hand into his jeans pocket; an action that Cas has noticed him doing habitually over the last two days, but one Cas never understood.

He stands close to Dean as they walk, letting Dean lean against him when a fresh wave of pain affects him. But he seems to become more lucid, more aware the closer they get to their model home.

Dean stumbles toward the couch after Cas unlocks the front door; Cas points him toward the stairs. “Dean, you need a bed.”

“Couch is fine,” Dean slurs, pushing Cas away ineffectively.

“You’re taking the bed,” is Cas’ firm reply. He guides Dean up the stairs and to the bedroom, only letting go when Dean flops onto the duvet.

“How’s the pain?” Cas asks, pulling the covers away for Dean.

“Better. Awful.” Dean makes an attempt to reach for his boot and pull it off; Cas bats his hands away and does it for him.

“I’m going to call Sam.”

“No, Cas, wait.” Dean becomes more alert, sits up even though he sways unsteadily. “Don’t worry him, okay? I already feel better than I did when we were at May’s house. Just… give it an hour. If I’m still feeling shitty you can call him.”

“He’ll be upset if we don’t tell him what’s going on,” Cas says.

“Yeah, I know, but we can tell him about it later, okay? He’s just gonna worry because he’s not around to help and do anything.”

Cas narrows his eyes. “All right. One hour.”

Dean sighs and slumps into the pillows. He opens an eye and frowns at Cas standing over his side. “Are you going to stand there for a whole hour?”

“No. I was going to get you water.”

“Fine, just… do _something_. You’re making me nervous.”

Cas makes tea as well as getting Dean water, even though he knows Dean will complain about it tasting like grass. He stares at the gas stove’s blue flames licking the bottom of the kettle, letting his mind go blessedly blank for the few minutes that it takes for the water to boil.

Dean found the note.

Cas scrubs a hand over his face and snaps the stove off as the kettle starts whistling.

He knocks softly on the door before entering the bedroom again. His heart stutters at the sight of Dean having burrowed under the blankets, his disarrayed hair sticking up from the edge of the sheets. Dean lifts his head and grunts in greeting.

“How are you feeling?” Cas asks, depositing the water and tea on the bedside table next to Dean’s.

“Like my brain is inside out,” Dean mutters against the pillow. “But the pain’s gone.”

“That’s good,” Cas says with relief. He puts a hand on Dean’s forehead. “You aren’t feverish.”

“I don’t think I ever was,” Dean sighs, sitting up. “I never felt sick; I think it was all psychic.”

“I see.” Cas takes a sip of his own tea, leaning against the wall. “We can do some research tomorrow. Try to figure out what sort of curse it could have been.”

“Could have been a proximity curse,” Dean says, rubbing his eye with the heel of his hand. “Explains why I got better when I left the house.”

Cas nods. Tilts his head toward the tea. “It’s peppermint.”

Wrinkling his nose, Dean says, “It smells like grass.” He picks up the mug and takes a begrudging sip anyway.

“The monster we’re hunting might not be a Vetala,” Cas says, after a moment of silence. “It may be something that can attack psychically. And if it was in that house…”

“Yeah, I was wondering the same thing.” Dean rubs at his neck. “Whatever it was, it was the worst pain I’ve ever felt. Every shitty experience I ever had all rolled into one maki roll of crap.”

Cas wrinkles his nose at the metaphor. “It… doesn’t sound pleasant.”

“It wasn’t.” Dean takes another gulp of tea; grimaces. “I don’t even remember what I said out loud or what was just in my head. I didn’t say anything weird or embarrassing, right?”

Cas lowers his head to avoid Dean’s eyes. He can nevertheless feel them boring into the top of his head. He considers telling Dean the truth, for a moment.

“Nothing embarrassing,” he says over the rim of his mug.

“‘kay, good, because I remember reliving the time a chick kicked me in the nuts. _That_ wasn’t pretty.”

Cas snorts out a laugh, asking, “And you deserved that?”

“Let me tell you a human secret, Cas: whenever a chick decides to kick you in the family jewels, it’s _always_ deserved.” Dean leans against the pillow, shaking his head at the ceiling. “I was sixteen and a dick. I deserved more than just a kick.”

“I’m sure that’s not true.” Cas sits on the edge of the bed, by Dean’s feet. “You mentioned… one name that I didn’t recognize.”

The shutters close behind Dean’s eyes. “Oh, yeah? Who?”

“Danny.”

Dean sighs. Slams the mug on the bedside table, making it shake. “Well, fuck, Cas. You said I didn’t say anything out loud.”

“You asked about anything embarrassing. Saying a name is far from that.”

“Yeah, only if you don’t know the shit behind it.” Dean pushes a hand through his hair. “He was a hunter’s kid. We knew each other when we were fourteen, when Dad moved me and Sam to Ohio.”

Cas notes the tension in Dean’s shoulders, pulled back and taut like a bowstring, ready to snap at any moment. He almost doesn’t ask, “What happened?”

Restless fingers tap the duvet. “He died.”

“Oh, I’m… I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, well—that’s a hunter’s life for you.”

“I am beginning to understand that,” Cas says. “Three of the four hunters I paired up with in the past year died while on a hunt with me.”

“Three of them? Shit, Cas, were you taking all the suicidal cases or something?”

“I assume it was my naivety as a hunter that got them killed,” Cas says. “When you said that I have no abilities hunting, I—well, I attempted to prove you wrong, but it seemed to backfire.”

“Cas, I was being a dick,” Dean snaps. “It wasn’t your fault they died. They were probably new to the game too, right?” At Cas’ nod, Dean throws up a hand. “See? Experienced hunters don’t usually pair up with newbies. They think it’ll slow ‘em down. Danny died because we paired up and we were both new and stupid. That’s just being a hunter. That’s life.”

“I suppose you’re right.”

“No, I _am_ right,” Dean insists. “And then after you lose the first few people you actually give a damn about, you learn the rules.” He pushes his covers off him, as if preparing to leap from the bed for a fight, although his face is pale and drawn. “You learn that if you don’t put on the oxygen mask on yourself in case of a crash, you’ll be ganked in the end and can’t help anyone. If you look out for yourself, and help yourself, then no one has to get in the line of fire for you. And if you die, you die. You don’t let anyone do any sacrificial bullshit for you; it’ll only make your life worse. And their life, if they live through it.”

The mug shakes in Cas’ hands. He grips it tighter “I see,” is all he can choke out.

Dean blinks out of his intensity, seeming to realize what he said. “Cas, I mean—that’s different, okay? Our situation is different. Not everything’s black or white, obviously. I’m just… I’m just sayin’.”

“But your choice was taken away,” Cas says, somehow finding his voice. “I didn’t—”

Dean holds up a hand. Cas clicks his jaw shut. “Rules, Cas,” Dean says, steadily. “Remember ‘em? No talking about the past. It’s done. None of your guilt, none of my angry bullshit. I was just giving you an explanation, I wasn’t trying to…” He sighs. “We ain’t harpin’ on it.”

Cas looks down at his hands with a nod.

Dean takes a sharp swig of tea. “Another adage from good old John Winchester,” he grumbles into his mug.

A heavy, oppressive fog of silence descends on them. Desperate to change the subject, Cas lightly clears his throat. “We should think of a game plan. To deal with… whatever we’re dealing with.”

“Yeah. Yeah, we should.” Dean swings his legs over the side of the bed. “Time to research.”

Cas stands in alarm. “What, now? Just an hour ago you couldn’t even walk.”

“Well I’m fine now,” Dean grumbles, unsteadily pushing himself to his feet.

“No, you’re not.” A gentle push of Cas’ hand against Dean’s chest is all it takes for him to tumble back into the bed. “We can deal with it in the morning.”

“That Vetala or whatever-it-is is out there, Cas, we can’t just sleep and ignore it.”

“ _You_ will sleep and ignore it. I will stay up and research. And consequently keep an eye out for any more potential attacks.” He resolutely pulls the covers over Dean’s head. “But you have to rest so that you’re not so useless.”

“I’m not useless,” Dean sputters, pushing the covers, his hair sticking up every which-way. At Cas’ smile, Dean realizes he’s joking; rolls his eyes. “Fine, I’ll get my four hours. But then I’m waking up and finding the bastard that attacked me.”

“After you sleep,” Cas says firmly. He picks up Dean’s tea mug and switches out the light. “I’ll be downstairs if you need me.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean grumbles, eyes already closed and head already burrowing into the pillow.

Cas shuts the bedroom door and leans against it, gusting out a sigh. The mugs in his hands tap against his sides as he lowers his arms.

Dean found the note. Dean _kept_ the note.

It rattles around Cas’ brain, akin to pots and pans clanging together in cacophony. It chases at Castiel’s heels as he walks down the stairs to the living room. It bangs the mugs against the metal as he places them into the sink. It crowds against him as he sinks into the couch, head in his hands.

Dean reads the note, regularly.

He threads his fingers into his hair and pulls.

Dean _carries the note with him._

Cas bolts to his feet, breath coming out in harsh gasps. Walking to the front door, he yanks it open and walks briskly into the cold air. Fishes his phone from his pocket and shakily dials Sam’s number.

Sam answers blearily, as if he was sleeping: “Cas?” Cas is silent. He can hear the rustling of bedsheets on the other line as Sam sits up. “Cas? What’s going on? Is Dean okay?”

Looking up at the cloud-casted night sky, Cas nearly laughs. What an apt question. Is Dean okay? Maybe if Dean would finally let Cas explain, let Cas apologize for the whole situation. Maybe if Cas hadn’t left him a year ago and broken the only trust he had with him. Maybe if—

“Cas, you’re scaring me, seriously. Say _something_ , man.”

Cas blinks down at his shoes. His eyes are becoming wetter. “I ruined it, Sam.”

“What, Cas? The case? What—”

“It’s never going to be the same. I… I ruined it.”

Sam goes silent on the other line, an indication that he’s finally caught onto Cas’ fragmented conversation.

“I was so stupid. Incredibly, deeply stupid. I don’t know why I agreed to do this case with him. It won’t change anything, it’s—”

“Hey, wait, Cas, listen,” Sam says in a rush. “Just—”

“He found my note,” Cas says.

“What note?”

“A note I wrote before I left. I never meant for him to find it. What it said…” Cas bites his lip and tugs at his hair. “He found my note.”

“Cas.” Sam’s voice is firm. “He’ll come around, okay? He’ll be angry for a while, but he’ll come around, Dean always does.”

“It’s not just _anger,_ ” Cas argues, fist clenching the phone, a grip that would once snap it in half. “It’s irreparable _hurt._  I hurt him, I basically tossed him aside like he wasn’t anything to me, when he’s... I just… left—” Cas scrubs his face, willing his voice not to break. “I can’t ever make up for it.”

“You weren’t yourself, Cas, okay? You had just become human. You weren’t doing so good. Dean knows, I know: you weren’t in a good place. He can’t possibly hold you accountable for that.”

“It doesn’t matter. I _should_ be held accountable.”

“Cas. You’re being way too hard on yourself, man.”

“I’m not, Sam,” Cas says. “This time I know I’m not.”

“Okay, fine. Let’s say you screwed it up. What are you going to do, leave again? Because you _know_ that would only hurt Dean more. You need to stick it out, okay, Cas? Don’t push anything, just… be there. And when the hunt’s over, I’ll meet up with you guys, and we’ll straighten it out. Just don’t leave, okay?”

Cas imagines leaving, for a brief moment. Finding a bus station and taking a bus at random, to leave Dean and this irreparable pain behind. It’s… freeing.

But then he imagines Dean’s reaction at his departure: resignation. Hurt. Having everything in that note confirmed to him, again.

“I won’t leave,” Cas says softly into the receiver. “I won’t leave him again.”

Sam gusts out a sigh. “Okay, _good._ Just… hang in there, okay? Just be there for him. That’s what he really needs. And call me in the morning when you get some rest.”

“I will.” Cas snaps the phone shut. Gives himself a moment to stare out into the streets, glittering with ice, in front of him before turning on his heel. He makes sure the door is firmly locked before making his way back upstairs.

The room is quiet when Cas carefully opens the door; Dean’s deep breathing indicates that he fell asleep. Cas stands over his bed, noting the irony; he used to do this as an angel for hours and not even notice. He would catalogue the way that Dean tosses to his side as he sleeps, the way his nose wrinkles when he’s having a dream. Cas would convince himself that it was purely for scientific, observational reasons that he stared at Dean for hours.

Now, as a human, something new compels him: to join Dean.

He knows he won’t be welcome. But something broken in Cas convinces him to pull the covers back on the other side of the bed, and crawl into the bed with Dean. He lays just inches away from where Dean’s face is smashed into the pillow. This close, he can see Dean’s eyelashes flutter, can see the small amount of drool that’s already gathered on the pillow. It sparks a warmth in Cas’ chest.

It’s still in his head, raging against him: _Dean read the note._ But it’s easier to ignore, when Dean is an arm’s length away. When he knows that Dean is safe, and warm, and that Cas can go to his aid at a moment’s notice.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers in the space between them. Dean barely stirs. “I’m sorry for taking away your choice, and then taking myself out of the equation.” He closes his eyes against the tide of _shame, anguish, guilt_ that rises in him. “I truly thought I was doing the right thing.”

Dean huffs a breath in his sleep but doesn’t wake. Cas doesn’t mind; he doubts he’d have the courage to say these things if Dean’s eyes were open.

He lays there, eyes heavy, drifting in and out of sleep until dawn peeks through the window shades. Although not an angel, Cas still notices the stirrings of Dean waking: his eyelashes fluttering, his breath catching, his fingers curling against the bedsheets. Cas is frozen with indecision as to stay or to go.

He’s expecting indignation from Dean,or annoyance, anger; not… acceptance.

Dean opens his eyes; still caught between sleep and wakefulness, he smiles drowsily at the sight of Cas. He reaches out a hand, his fingers softly grazing against Cas’ cheek.

“‘Morning, ‘husband’,” he says, teasingly poking at Cas’ aforementioned nickname.

Cas grins, and Dean’s answering smile is the sunrise. It unfurls hope in Cas; beats all thoughts of the broken past to the ground. “Good morning, Dean.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> rolling into the comments to give a foreboding message of: enjoy this peaceful moment it won't last long..... 
> 
> : ) 
> 
>  
> 
> also, as always, thank you THANK YOU for sticking with this fic and reading and commenting. honestly it means the world to interact with you guys, and gives me motivation to write and update so... thank you.


	13. interlude; apr. 1993

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just a disclaimer: this chapter is really sad. even by my standards. and has some abusive John Winchester in it - if that's triggering or an issue, feel free to skip this interlude (don't worry, I don't touch on John's abuse in detail again in this story)
> 
> (ALSO - the chapter after this is far less angsty and upsetting, and dare I say fluffy, so if you want to stall reading this until the next chapter is out, i'll be posting that in a few days)

Dean only made one real, close friend growing up, as far as Sam knew.

His name was Danny.

It was shocking how similar their families’ stories were: Danny and his dad were a hunting team, a family business, like the Winchesters. Danny’s mother died by a supernatural monster, like Sam and Dean’s mom. And like John, Danny’s dad was on an obsessive, self-destructive path to find revenge.

It’s probably why Danny and Dean clicked so easily: both were driven by their own dads’ obsession, both tried to be a good soldier, both saw their mothers die.

As a result, they hung out together a _lot_. Sam remembers always being jealous of Danny taking up so much of Dean’s time. When Dean would go to play video games on Danny’s old Nintendo in his motel room, Dean would insist that Sam was too young to play with them. When Dean and Danny went exploring in the woods at the back of the motel, Dean would tell Sam that he would only slow them down.

When Dean and Danny decided to go after a really dangerous, really murderous monster to show their dads that they could be capable hunters too, Dean told Sam it was too dangerous to come along.

So Sam sat in the motel, as he always did when Dean went off with Danny, sulking and kicking his feet against the wall as he watched cartoons on the bed. When John got home and asked where Dean was, Sam didn’t understand why his pouty reply of “He’s with Danny, hunting a stupid monster”, made John rush right out of the motel room and get Danny’s dad.

Sam clicked off the TV and followed John right out the door. He wasn’t going to get left behind again _._

John barely noticed Sam climbing into the car with them before they sped down the highway. When he finally figured it out they were already miles from the hotel room. John cursed Sam out and shoved a knife into his hand for protection.

“Did you get the idea into their heads?” John barked at Danny’s dad.

Danny’s dad (Sam thinks his name was George) shook his head, sharply turning the wheel to take an exit, horns blaring behind them. “He must have gotten a hold of my case notes. I’m always tellin’ him what case I’m on, because more often than not we’re doin’ them together. I don’t know what the hell go into his head.”

“If he gets my boy killed—” John growled.

“Then it’ll be your kid’s fault as well as mine!” George barked. “Now get your fucking gun loaded.”

They finally stop in front of an old, dilapidated house. John and George bullet through the doors before Sam could ask if he can come inside, too. After only a moment’s hesitation Sam followed.

There was shouting when he approached the house; multiple gunshots that made him jump and almost drop the small knife in his hands. To this day he can’t remember the monster Dean and Danny tried to hunt, only that it was difficult to kill, even by professional standards.

It wasn’t until the sounds of fighting subside that he entered the house. The room was dark, with furniture scattered every way. George was crouched in the corner, and Sam couldn’t understand the sounds that were coming from his mouth—something that crossed between wailing and laughing. John just stood over the dark shape of the monster, muttering curses, swiping the back of his hand across his bloodied lip.

“Where’s Dean?” Sam asked, voice piercing the harsh sounds of the room.

John gestured to the corner. “If he's alive, he better have a fucking good explanation” He reloaded his gun, slung it over his shoulder. “I’m gonna get the gasoline and burn this son of a bitch.”

Sam looked at George, crouched over a lifeless form; Sam knew, instinctively, not to go too close. Instead he turned on his heel, bolting through the house looking for Dean. Calling his brother’s name until his throat was hoarse.

He finally found him because of Dean’s own yelling; he was in a closet in the adjoining room where Danny was found, unable to get out because of a gun wedged through the door handles. When Sam was able to open it, Dean fell through the doors. He didn’t even acknowledge Sam’s presence, just sprinted from the room, screaming Danny’s name.

Following his brother’s footsteps, Sam stood and watched as Dean halted behind George, taking in the scene. He called Danny’s name again, stepping toward the body. Sam had never heard his brother’s voice so high and small.

George burst to life then, whirling on Dean and grabbing him by the throat. “Where the fuck were you?” he shouted, shaking Dean. “Where the fuck were you when my boy was getting _slaughtered?_ There’s not a scratch on you, you little bitch—”

John ran in, only because Sam was screaming for him. John shoved George away. Dean stepped back, coughing, unable to catch his breath.

“I’ll take care of it,” John said to George, pushing him back by his shoulders. “I’ll take care of my boy, and you take care of yours. You got it?”

John grabbed Dean by the scruff of his neck and lead him outside. He shoved him against George’s truck and asked, deathly soft, “What happened in there, Dean?”

Dean was looking at John, but he seemed to stare right through him. “We were… we tried to kill it but it was too strong, we were unprepared and—”

“No, Dean. I’m asking where you were when your friend was dying.”

Sam saw tears spilling down Dean’s cheeks, but his lip didn’t quiver, and his voice remained steady. “I was in a closet, sir.”

“Well ain’t that a metaphor,” John spat out. “Why were you in a closet, boy?”

Dean didn’t answer. John grabbed him by the shoulder, and by the way Dean winced, it must have hurt. John said, in a low tone, “This is a lesson, Dean. A _big_ fucking lesson to show you what happens when you hide like a coward instead of helping the people you care about. Get your fucking act together and shape the fuck up or it’ll be your brother that gets dead because of your stupid, cowardly ass. The most cowardly thing you can do is letting someone die for you. Don’t _ever_ let someone die for your sorry ass again. Next time, you _fight._ Or die trying. You got that?”

“I do, sir,” Dean murmured. He let himself be shoved into the car, his head getting hit in the doorframe on the way in.

Sam didn’t ask about it until the lights were out, and John was in George’s motel room helping him with Danny’s body. He turned to Dean’s frozenly still frame, only barely made out by the dark. “Dean?” Sam whispered. “Why didn’t you tell Dad you were trapped in the closet and couldn’t get out?”

“Leave it, Sammy.”

“He thought you were hiding. But you weren’t.”

“I said, _leave it._ ”

Sam climbed out of bed and sat on Dean’s, giving it a bounce. “You can tell me. I’m your brother.”

There was a long stretch of silence; it sounded like Dean was barely breathing. Finally, he said into the quiet, “Danny locked me in there. The monster was too strong, and—we were both going to die, we knew it. But he.” Dean made a broken sound. “He locked me in there and saved me.”

Sam whistled. “Wow. He was really brave.”

Dean whipped his covers away and sat up in the bed, slamming a fist into the mattress. “No, Sammy, he wasn’t. He was a goddamn idiot. He didn’t even give me the choice or the chance, he just shoved me in there even though I _told him_ not to, that we could fight it together, that if I died then who the hell cared.”

“I care,” Sam said in a small voice. “He cared.”

“He shouldn’t have,” Dean said, and Sam could hear his voice catching. “He had no right to fucking make that choice for me and just—leave me behind and—” When he was unable to go on he rolled to his side, back to Sam, curling up into a tight ball.

Sam climbed into the covers next to him and pressed into his side, patting Dean’s head for comfort like Dean did whenever Sam was sad. “It’ll be okay, Dean,” Sam said, not knowing what the hell he was promising.

And even though it’s not his story to tell, not his explanation to give; sometimes Sam wants to tell Cas. Wants to give Cas insight as to why Dean never let Sam do the dangerous hunts when growing up, why Dean got especially pissed when Sam tried to sacrifice himself for Dean or the greater good. Why Dean refused to let Sam do the trials and instead put himself at death’s door.

Sam knows that it would give Cas the part of the puzzle he needs to understand why his decision—his choice instead of Dean’s—is making everything inevitably go to shit.

But Sam doesn’t tell him. And just hopes to whatever god is still out there that somehow Cas figures it out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if this was painful to read, just remember, fluff coming up soon<3
> 
> (also i swear to god this chapter has a purpose, it really does explain a LOT of the story even though it doesn't seem it yet, i'm not just being an edgelord for no reason)


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “As if you could kill time without injuring eternity.” 
> 
> -Thoreau, Walden

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a special thank you to Emma ([saltnhalo](https://saltnhalo.tumblr.com)) for helping me with the ending scene, and with the whole chapter in general:)
> 
> and as always to my betas/personal cheerleaders: [woefulcas](https://woefulcas.tumblr.com), [galaxystiel](https://galaxystiel.tumblr.com), [castielrisingabove](https://castielrisingabove.tumblr.com). you guys are just. really keepin me going.

Dean waits for waking up next to Cas to be weird, or awkward. But it’s not. It’s strangely… normal.

He realizes, as he watches Cas get up from the bed, that he’s never seen Cas wake up before. Cas’ hair is almost impossibly messier than normal and his eyes are half-lidded, unfocused. Dean knows he should probably stop staring like a loon but finds he can’t look away.

Cas extends his arms arms toward the ceiling in a languid stretch. A strip of skin peeks out from under Cas’ shirt as it rides upward. Dean quickly averts his gaze when Cas catches him staring.

“I’m going to make some coffee,” Cas says slowly, hesitantly. “Then maybe we should research.”

“That…” Dean clears his throat and hates how hot his cheeks are. “That sounds good.”

He tries not to watch Cas’ back as he leaves, he really does. But he’s still half asleep and he just woke up next to his fake husband and his brain is not rebooting as fast as it should.

He flops back onto his pillow, stares at the ceiling, and collects the facts.

Fact: being in a fake relationship with Cas is better than Dean ever thought it could be.

Fact: he got insanely jealous of Faith coming onto Cas yesterday, and it wasn’t just an act for fake-relationship’s sake.

Fact: he wants to wake up next to Cas every morning.

He punches the pillow next to him at this last realization and gusts a sigh through his nose. Because that’s the problem: he can’t just go down that route. Of course he has feelings for Cas; he’s known that for years. But since Cas left, since everything that happened—it’s becoming less and less likely that they can set aside their bullshit and move on.

But these facts, these impossibilities, don’t stop Dean from laying in bed longer than he should, breathing in the lingering smell of _Cas_ that’s left behind, his hand feeling the retreating warmth where Cas’ head was.

“All right, Winchester,” he mutters to himself, sitting up and swinging his legs over the side of the bed, “time to get a fucking grip.”

Gathering the scraps of the dignity he has left, he makes his way down to the kitchen. Cas’ back is turned as he fills the coffee drip machine with water and adds a filter to it. His shoulders are higher than usual, his whole spine is a ramrod of tension. Dean frowns.

“Hey, Cas, remember when you couldn’t make coffee to save your life?” he asks with a grin, shooting for a light mood, perching on a stool at the kitchen island.

“I remember,” Cas says brusquely, punching the _on_ button for the water to heat up. He turns and wipes his hands on his jeans. “I was thinking we should go to the library. There’s likely computers we can use there. We can access the Men of Letters database that Sam was archiving online to see if we can find any leads.”

Dean’s smile fades. “Sure. We can do that. ...Is everything okay, Cas?”

“Why wouldn’t it be?” Cas asks stiffly. He turns back to the coffee machine.

“I dunno, you seem stressed out.”

Cas reaches into the cupboard, looking for a mug, and dodges Dean’s question. “Are you feeling better?”

Dean rubs his forehead and considers. “Still feel like my head was put through a blender on the puree setting. But yeah, I’m totally fine.”

The fact that Cas doesn’t comment on Dean’s analogy, that he just remains staring at the white mug he grabbed from the cupboard, raises another red flag. He feels a dizzying sense of deja vu, like he’s had this conversation with Cas before, but in an underground place with thicker walls and Sam staring at Cas worriedly from the kitchen table.

 _It’s not like that_ , he tells himself firmly.

Slapping his hands against the counter, he stands. “I’m gonna make up some food. Bacon and eggs okay?”

Cas looks up, as if startled by Dean still being there. “That’s fine,” he says distractedly.

Spacing out was something else Cas did a lot when he first became human.

 _This is_ not _like that_ , he reminds himself again.

But it’s hard to separate the two time periods—Cas as a new human, present Cas—as he just sits there at the counter, staring down at his coffee while Dean makes breakfast. This is how the whole shit-show started: Cas losing track of time by spacing out, not making eye contact, only supplying monosyllabic answers. Sam called it a defense tactic, said that Cas was just retreating behind a wall of sorts to process all the emotions he was feeling. But it’s a wall that Dean never liked being shut out of, and a wall that Cas refused to let him pass for six months in the bunker.

Dean doesn’t know what he did to make Cas retreat back to this coping mechanism; all he knows is that he’s terrified of it. He spoons eggs and bacon onto a plate and deposits it in front of Cas. Forcing his tone to be casual, he says, “Hey, I have an idea. Let’s research here. I’ll hack into someone’s wifi, we’ll use the laptop.”

At Cas’ wary look, Dean lies: “I’m not feeling 100%, so I wanna stick around here. How’s that sound?”

“If you’re not feeling well, you should rest.”

“I’ll research in bed, then,” Dean says, with a shrug he hopes is casual.

Cas frowns down at his eggs. “I suppose that’d be fine. I can go to May’s house later, as well, and apologize for our abrupt departure. Maybe see if they act suspiciously.”

“Yeah, sure, Cas, go alone and get sprung on by some monsters. No way.”

“I can take care of myself,” Cas protests.

“I’m not sayin’ you can’t, but it’s better if we go as a team.” He scoots the plate closer to Cas. “Eat your eggs.”

Cas relents and takes a bite—a victory in itself, since Dean could never get him to eat at the bunker. He raises his eyes, chewing thoughtfully. “You can hack into a neighboring wifi?”

“Sure can. Charlie taught me how.” He winks as he takes a sip of Cas’ coffee. Cas narrows his eyes.

* * *

Staying true to his word, Dean plops himself onto the bed after his shower and cracks open his laptop, rubbing his hands together. “Easy as pie. Oh look, Cas, here’s your girlfriend’s wifi.”

“I don’t have a girlfriend,” Cas mutters from where he sits on the floor, back against the wall.

“Hey, no way,” Dean says, snapping his fingers and gesturing next to him. “Get your ass up here, man. This bed is huge.”

Cas hoists himself onto the bed, sitting at the very end.

Dean nods, satisfied. “There. And I meant Faith, dummy. You know, the chick that was blatantly flirting with you at the dinner party? A _married_ man?”

“It wasn’t flirting,” Cas sighs, digging a hefty pile of books out of his ratty old backpack.

“It was flirting, I’m an expert, and why the hell do you have a library in there? You really carry that thing around?”

“I picked up books that I thought were useful,” Cas argues, “and since I didn’t have a permanent residence I only had one place to put them.”

Dean grunts as he clicks on Faith’s wifi to hack into. She deserves it, anyway. “Got anything useful in there about Vetala? Or psychic attacks?”

“A book on various witches’ spells,” Cas says, shuffling through his books. “It may shed some light on our situation.”

As Cas moves a stained-covered book from the pile, a familiar green one catches Dean’s eye. He frowns over the top of his laptop screen as he types out the final touches for hacking into Faith’s wifi VPN. Unable to place where he’s seen Cas’ book before, he says, “You look up spells. I’ll check the database, see if there’s any monsters that match this weird-ass situation.”

Cas tucks his feet under his legs and places the book on his lap, pushing back his messy hair. Dean makes a note to buy him a damn brush, because the urge to push his fingers through Cas’ hair and fix it is just driving him crazy.

They spend the next hour in a comfortable silence. Dean finds himself not concentrating as much as he should; he keeps flicking his gaze towards Cas, hunched over and studiously reading, bags under his eyes and expression tense.

‘Smothering’. That’s what Cas said he does, when they had their big fight before Cas left. Dean has it in writing too, tucked away in his pocket, just to confirm it. Dean _smothers_ Cas, and never lets him breathe. It’s something Sam has also criticized him of, time and time again—he knows he does it. Knows that it’s born from fear that Cas is going to leave.

Well, that got him far.

So Dean won’t smother, even though he’s itching to ask Cas what’s wrong. He’ll leave Cas alone in hopes that Cas won’t leave _him_ alone.

Needing distraction to shut up his own thoughts, Dean nudges Cas’ knee with his socked foot. “Find anything?”

“Nothing. I can’t find anything that is related to the recollection of the bad memories you experienced—or the pain associated. You?”

“Nothin’. Nada. Tried to find something suggesting that Vetala might have psychic powers, but nothing on that.” Dean stretches and groans. “I don’t know what the hell we’re dealing with.”

“Perhaps we should—”

The doorbell cuts Cas off.

It jolts them into action; Dean grabbing his gun on the nightstand table, Cas pulling out the silver knife from his backpack.

Dean’s eyes flicker to Cas’. “That’s our doorbell, right?”

At Cas’ nod, Dean stands and pockets the gun in his jeans waistband behind his back, pulling his shirt over it. “Probably just a neighbor.”

“But just in case,” Cas says, tucking the knife in his own waistband. They both descend the stairs quietly, avoiding the windows. Dean gestures for Cas to hide behind the door; once Cas is flattened into a defensive pose on the other side of the door, he swings it open.

“Oh. Hey, May,” he says, trying for a casual tone—as if his fake husband doesn’t have a knife brandished behind the door.

“Hello, Dean,” May says cheerfully, rocking back on her heels. “Is Cas around? I was just returning his coat.”

“Oh, no, he’s at work,” Dean says with a broad smile, the one that has, historically, charmed women into bed. “But I’ll give it to him when he gets back, okay?”

Handing him the coat, the leather cracking between their hands, May continues, “I heard from Faith that you got sick from the food? Are you doing okay? I hope it wasn’t anything I made!”

“No, I just have a weird stomach,” Dean lies smoothly. “Lots of allergies, and… stuff. Probably smart that I married a doctor, huh?”

May chuckles, but her eyes are discerning. “Well, all right. As long as you feel better.”

“Sure do.”

They eye each other warily, fake smiles frozen in place; until May abruptly claps her hands together, making Dean twitch and almost jolt Cas out of his hiding place. “Well! I’ll leave you to your day. Let me know if I can do anything for you.”

“Uh, sure. Thanks, May.” With a wave, Dean firmly shuts the door and locks it for good measure.

“Dean,” Cas says, urgently stepping toward him. “It has to be her. She was practically checking to see if you were dead.”

“Cas, c’mon.” Dean waves him off. “She was just returning your coat. And being a concerned neighbor. Something’s off, I agree but—I dunno. I’m just not seeing it.”

Cas grumbles a curse, sounding distinctly like Enochian, pocketing his knife. “I don’t trust her.”

“Me neither. But I’ve been bouncing around a theory in my head. And I’m wondering—”

“If there are two different monsters killing in the same place,” Cas finishes.

“Uh. Yeah. How’d you know that?”

“I’ve been thinking it too.” Cas gestures up the stairs with a nod of his head. “I think we should research under the assumption that there could be two monsters competing for the same victim pool. They may find this neighborhood a viable killing area.”

“Yeah, but how?” Dean asks, ascending the carpeted stairs behind Cas. “The neighbors are freakishly in each other’s business. Anybody disappearing is noticed immediately around here.”

“It could be the lack of competency in the police department. Have you seen anything to impress you about this town’s safety so far?”

“No, especially after that coroner’s report that you found—the ‘maybe death by suffocation’ thing was weird.” Dean flops onto the bed, outstretched, with a groan. “All I know is that I’m tired. And sick of not having answers.”

Cas sits on the edge of the bed next to Dean. Their legs brush. “There is an option.”

Dean opens one eye. “Oh yeah? What?”

“This monster seems to have taken the offense against us; whether it thinks we’re hunters or just another good victim, it has its sights set. What if we just let it attack again? But this time we’re ready?”

“We can’t fight something—or even kill it—if we don’t know what it is, Cas.”

“I realize that. But we have more questions than answers at the moment. Researching is one thing, but if we don’t know what this monster even looks like, it’s hard to judge what it is.”

“You’re talking about setting ourselves up as bait,” Dean says flatly.

“Essentially.”

“Well.” Dean scrubs a hand over his face. “I don’t know how the hell we’re going to do that, but I guess it’s a plan. Either way, we should keep researching. Take a page out of Sam’s book.”

“Yes,” Cas says, smiling down at his hands. “It’s a wise page to take.”

Dean sits up and grabs his laptop, plopping it on his lap. “Yeah, yeah, he’s a genius. Don’t tell him I said that or I’ll deny it.”

The next few hours are filled with more fruitless research; it hurts Dean’s brain. He gets a few texts from Sam announcing that he and Jody have found nothing useful. Cas obviously told Sam about Dean’s attack last night, because he keeps fussing over how Dean feels, or if he’s okay.

Dean is texting a bitchy response to Sam, to get him to stop worrying about him, when Cas says, “Dean, I have a question.”

“What’s up, Cas?” Dean asks, not looking up from his phone.

“Should it be troubling that as a human I am prone to headaches and neck pain?”

Dean scoffs. “Nah, man. That’s just one of the perks of being human.” He sends the text and looks up; Cas is rubbing his neck irritably. “It could also be because of the fact that you’ve had your head bent over a book for the last few hours.”

“I suppose,” Cas says with a grimace as he pushes at the back of his neck. “It’s not pleasant, either way.”

“C’mere.” Dean flicks his index finger in the air, indicating for Cas to come over. “Lemme see.”

Warily, Cas scoots over on the bed until he is in front of Dean. The only explanation for Dean’s next move is that his brain totally goes offline; that, or he’s getting way too entrenched in this whole fake relationship thing. His fingers skim across Cas’ neck, until he finds the knot, then presses against it. Cas grunts.

“That where it is?” Dean asks.

“Yes,” Cas all but sighs. He slumps a little bit back into Dean. “Thank you.”

“Sure, dude. What are fake husbands for.”

Dean experiments with different pressures, to see if Cas melts or pulls away at them, all the while trying very hard to keep his physiological responses in check. Cas’ skin is a light tan and warmer to the touch than Dean expected. He has an insane urge to replace the fingers pushing into Cas’ neck with his lips.

“Am I helping?” Dean asks, his voice scratchier than he’d like it to be.

“Yes, Dean. Very much.” A beat passes. “No one has done this for me before. I find I don’t… hate the sensation.”

“What, you didn’t make any lady friends on the road?” Dean mentally kicks himself for even mentioning it.

“Ah… not exactly. I found that being a homeless man without a frequent access to a shower deters people from any amorous relationship with me. Besides, I didn’t try.”

Dean’s fingers dig into Cas’ skin harder. He lets up when Cas flinches. “Uh huh. Makes sense.” _Then why didn’t you stay in the bunker with a goddamn shower,_ Dean thinks. _And a goddamn bed._

He knows the answer; so he doesn’t ask.

“You’re good at this,” Cas says, voice murmured and sleepy.

Dean shrugs and moves to his shoulders. “Chicks dig a guy who can massage.”

“And men do, as well.” Cas almost sounds hesitant to say it.

“And men,” Dean agrees quietly. Somehow this makes his stomach twist; makes him realize the implications and seriousness of massaging Cas’ shoulders like this when there’s no one around to fake a relationship with. He pats Cas’ shoulder. “Well. If you ever need it again, give me a shout.”

“Thank you, Dean.” Cas crawls back to his space on the bed, looking almost as uncomfortable as Dean.

Dean nods firmly. “No prob.”

Picking up his pile of books, Cas says, “I was thinking that perhaps we should contact Sam, ask him if he has any new leads or information.”

Dean blinks at Cas. Breathes in a sharp gasp. He points accusingly to the green-covered book, the one he recognized earlier. “Hey—that’s Sam’s!”

“Uh. Yes?”

“How the hell did you get that?”

Cas picks up the book, holding it protectively. “He gave it to me to borrow.”

“Yeah but then you ghosted, effectively stealing the thing.” Dean crosses his arms and frowns. “I can tell that it’s his because of that huge coffee stain on the front. He was pissed when that happened.”

Cas traces his fingers against the corner of the paperback spine, shoulders hunched like they normally get when he’s uncomfortable. “I didn’t mean to steal it. It’s just… a very significant book to me.”

“It’s okay, man, I’m just giving you grief. Sammy has too many books anyway. What’s it called again?”

Handing it to Dean to look at, Cas says, “ _Walden_. It’s written by Thoreau.”

Dean wrinkles his nose. “Never got into him. Didn’t like his style.”

Cas’ hands become restless; he fiddles with a loose thread from the flowery duvet. “How so?”

“I dunno, Cas. Just don’t like it, all right?”

The interest in Cas’ eyes go out like a light as he nods and stares down at his hands.

Dean sighs. Continues, “Fine. Just. I like classical authors like Vonnegut, or Orwell. There’s more of a straightforward prose to them: they say what they’re thinking, or what they want to say, in a plain and clear way. Not that their writing is simplistic, or anything, but….” Dean shrugs. “I just don’t think that someone needs to write in flowery or complicated ways to get their message across.”

“I understand what you mean.” Cas takes the book back, tapping it thoughtfully. “It takes me multiple reads to find the meaning in a sentence of his.”

Dean grunts in agreement. He remembers trudging through _A Winter’s Walk_ in high school; his English professor, only knowing him for a week, thought he was an idiot that hated to read, when the truth was he just hated the book.

“So why do you like it so much?” he asks after a moment of silence.

“It’s informative.”

“On how to be a hermit in the woods?”

Cas smiles. “No, Dean. It’s informative on how to be a human.”

“Cas, the guy was a kook that lived in the woods instead of having access to plumbing.”

“Plumbing wasn’t invented until after his death.”

“Okay, fine, but he was still a crazy person. And he just rants about the economy, and is a hipster douche who judges people for buying furniture instead of making it themselves. How the hell does it teach you anything?”

It’s the wrong thing to say, apparently; Cas glares down at the book and says, stiffly, “I’ve learned a lot from it. Stop mocking me.”

“I’m not _mocking_ —”

Cas holds out the book again, this time pushing it into Dean’s chest. “I’ve marked the relevant pages and quotes.”

Dean sighs. Decides to humor Cas and opens the book and flips through to the first bookmark his thumb finds.

_The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation… But it is a characteristic of wisdom not to do desperate things._

Dean scoffs. A good lesson for Cas, with all the self-sacrificing bullshit Dean’s almost had a heart attack over. He flips to another page.

_Things do not change; we change._

No shit. Another page:

_I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived._

Well, Dean has a lot of things to say about _that_ —but he keeps his mouth shut.

Dean turns the page to where the spine is most bent. The pages are especially creased in this section and have a weird scratchy feel to them that the rest of the pages don’t, making Dean wonder if Cas or Sam had accidentally splashed water on this particular page. But then his eyes wander to where the words are underlined, circled, highlighted, and his breath stutters.

_The cost of a thing is the amount of what I call life which is required to be exchanged for it, immediately or in the long run._

There’s a note in the margin. It just says _Dean_ , written in pencil, underlined and the letters traced over countless time until it’s bolder than the typed text.

The way that Cas has also frozen, staring at the book with a blank expression, means that Dean maybe wasn’t supposed to find this page. He clears his throat, says, “Uh… yeah. I see what you mean, Cas. I stand corrected.”

Cas’ face is particularly pale when he takes the book back. He puts his hand on the cover, says softly, “I’ve learned a lot, in the past year. I know it’s your rule to not talk about it, and I respect it, but… I really have.”

Dean stays silent. He hopes that it’s enough of an indication for Cas to go on.

“It’s why I wanted to apologize. I’m…” He closes his eyes and gusts a sigh through his nose. “I’m ashamed at how I conducted myself at the bunker after becoming human. I wasn’t… myself. I did things, acted in ways that I regret.”

“I smothered you,” Dean says softly to his hands. “Not your fault that you got pissed.”

Cas’ face breaks into a desolate expression. “Did I really put it that way?” he asks, almost to himself.

“Cas—”

“Even considering _why_ we had to adjust the way we did—why our friendship became fragmented in the first place, the fact that I behaved the way I did and said the things I said—”

“Cas, seriously. Let’s just chalk it up to the fact that we were both shitty at adjusting.” Dean shakes his head when Cas opens his mouth to say more, cutting in with, “I don’t want to talk about… _that._ You apologized for the stuff that happened in the bunker. Fine, I accept it. But we’re not talking about… before. Okay?”

Cas, looking like he swallowed something bitter, nods. “I understand.”

“It’s just…” Dean swipes a hand over his face. “It’s too much.”

“I know.”

They sit in miserable silence; Dean knows that Cas is thinking of the event that spurred all this crap in the first place, that led to Cas leaving. The same event that Dean is resolutely blocking in his own mind.

No use in dwelling on the past, is a lesson in survival that Dean learned a long time ago.

“Let’s just keep researching,” Dean says, softly. Cas nods in agreement.

The soft, but unmistakable sound of a floorboard creak below them makes them pause. Dean meets Cas’ wide blue eyes, as alert and frozen as he is.

“You heard that?” Dean hisses.

Cas nods. He stands in tandem with Dean, withdrawing his knife. Dean shoves his gun into Cas’ hand—just in case a knife doesn’t cut it—and grabs a pistol from under the pillow.

Holding the weapon close to him, he presses up close to Cas and whispers in his ear, “I’m goin’ first, you flank me. When we both hit the floor, you look right and I’ll look left. Watch corners. Stay together.”

“I will,” Cas says. If he’s scared, or nervous, or bothered that Dean is going first, he doesn’t show it. Dean creeps out into the hallway and slowly down the stairs, wincing at every subtle creak in the floor; he can feel Cas’ presence behind him. The only sound coming from downstairs is the heater switching on, and he can’t make out any shadows to give away the presence of anyone.

“Right,” Dean mouths to Cas before they both get to the last stair. Like loaded springs, they whip around to face the rest of the open-planned house: Cas facing the living room, Dean the kitchen. Nothing.

“Cas—” is all he says before the lights suddenly go out.

It’s well into nightfall, and whoever premeditated this had closed the curtains, making the house nearly pitch black. “Fuck,” he growls, reaching around for Cas, who is no longer there. “Cas!” Keeping his gun at chest-level, he shuffles to where he remembers the kitchen light being and fruitlessly flicks it back and forth. “Goddamn it—Cas! Where are you?”

There’s a clatter, and Cas’ voice, “Dean, there’s two of them!” before Dean feels something hit him hard enough across the back of the head that it vibrates through his skull. He stumbles briefly, disoriented, before spinning on his heel and ramming his body into whatever is attacking him. He’s too off-balance to get a shot off. A kick against his legs, and his knee buckles. Knowing he can’t get pushed to the ground, he knocks his pistol against what he hopes is a critical part of the person’s body.

Based on the curse—a man’s voice, from the sound of it—and the sound of someone stumbling back, it is.

Dean sprints to the curtain drawn over the huge bay window in the living room and yanks it down, the curtain pole clattering to the ground. Light from the streetlamps floods the living room. He turns just in time to see the outline of a figure running at him. He dodges to the side, and throws an elbow towards the shadowy figure: his attacker smacks into his forearm, getting knocked to the ground.

He points his gun at the unmoving figure. “Fuck,” he bites out again, taking a moment to catch his breath. He turns to find Cas—

“Dean, get down!” Cas shouts, slamming into him, knocking them both into the space between the couch and the coffee table. Dean hears the telltale pops of a silenced gun. Glass shatters from the vase on the fireplace mantle and rains down on them.

“What kind of monster uses guns?” Dean growls, one arm over his head, another over Cas’ to protect him from the glass.

“I have no idea,” Cas grunts out.

The silenced shots stop; Dean hesitantly lifts his head. “Where did you see it last?” he hisses to Cas. Cas rolls to his back, holding his arm awkwardly. His left eye is bloody. Dean suppresses the flash of worry in his gut.  

“There was a woman in the kitchen,” Cas pants. “Behind the kitchen island.”

Dean scoots forward on his stomach and peeks around the corner of the couch, gun trained on the kitchen. He can see someone’s foot poking out from behind the kitchen island, just as Cas said. “Not a very good hiding spot,” he mutters, pulling the trigger and just missing, the bullet ricocheting across the kitchen tile. There’s a yelp and the foot disappears.

“Lady, tell me who the fuck you are and what you’re doing,” Dean calls out. “Who sent you?”

Silence. Dean whispers to Cas, “You go around the corner through the back, get her at gunpoint. I’ll keep her distracted.”

With a nod, Cas crouches and dashes across the living room, disappearing.

“I got your friend over here,” Dean calls back again. He can’t see the man who attacked him but he hopes to Chuck that he’s still unconscious. “And if you wanna see him alive, you’d better start talking and tell us what the hell you want.”

An almost manic laugh comes from the kitchen. “Surely you’re not _that_ stupid. You kill all those people, we finally find you out, and you play the dumb act? Not going to work.”

“So, you the cops or something?” Dean asks, cocking his gun. He gets to his knees and peeks over the couch. “I guess you won’t believe me when I said we had nothing to do with those deaths.”

“Not in the slightest,” the woman snaps back. “And I swear to God, if you hurt Bob, you’re going to wish you hadn’t.”

“All right, so you _are_ May,” Dean mutters under his breath, smacking his hand against the couch cushion. “Son of a bitch.”

“We can do this the easy way or hard way,” May yells. “Come out, or—” Her words stop abruptly. Dean peeks over the couch again to see Cas standing behind her, gun poised at her head. Dean stands and punches his fist in the air.

“Yeah! That’s my fake husband who just got the jump on you, you son of a bitch!”

Cas rolls his eyes but looks mildly proud of himself—until his eyes flicker past Dean’s shoulder, expression melting into terrified.

Dean opens his mouth to ask what’s wrong, when a gun cocks behind him. “Fuck,” he sighs. Bob’s gun pushes into his back.

“Okay, you goddamn monster,” Bob hisses, pushing Dean forward. “You and your partner, or whatever the fuck you call each other, are both gonna die, but I’ll give you the option for him to die slowly or quickly. You just gotta put the gun down.”

May stands slowly from behind the kitchen island, Cas’ gun against her head. Cas’ eyes flicker from her to Dean. “What makes you think we’re the monster here?” Cas demands.

“The fact that you murdered all those people, for a start!” Bob shouts. Dean winces when the gun gets shoved into the back of his neck. “Now let May go, or I’m going to shoot him in the spine and make his last few minutes of life agony. Is that really what you want?”

“If you hurt Dean, I will kill you,” Cas growls. Dean almost sees the angel in him.

“Listen,” Dean says, sucking in a breath when the gun is pressed harder into him, “we’re not responsible for those murders, okay? If you’d just fucking take a breath and listen to us—”

“You think that we’re going to let a couple of monsters go because they want to _reason_ with us?” May spits. “We’re hunters for chrissakes, if you had any sense in that brain of yours you would know that—”

Dean and Cas flash each other an alarmed look. “No, _we’re_ hunters, you goddamn idiots,” Dean barks.

There’s a tense, loaded silence. Dean half expects Cas to just shoot May in the head with how pissed off he looks. The cold barrel of the gun slips down, away from his head as Bob whistles behind him.

“Well, I’ll be damned.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ANYONE SURPRISED?? ;)
> 
> thanks for sticking with this fic, guys. i'm going to be posting regularly on Sundays from here on out, so expect updates then! :)  
> <3 i love you all, and your feedback gives me so much valuable help in my writing, so I'd love to hear your thoughts.


	15. interlude; mar. 2013

“I’ll tell you.”

Sam looked up from his book. It's the most recent one in the stack, one that Cas had found the other day that may give insight to the trials—and asked, “Tell me what?”

Dean was huddled in a chair, looking smaller than Sam was used to, a blanket over his shoulders (Cas had put it there earlier, despite Dean’s protests). “I’ll tell you what happened in that future that Zachariah sent me to.”

Sam pushed his finger between the pages to save his place as he let the book close. He nodded, leaning back in the chair: an indication for Dean to go on.

Licking his dry lips (Sam made a note to get chapstick at his next drug store run), Dean scrubbed a hand over his face and sighed. “I told you that Cas was human, in the future. That he was a stoner and a…” He visibly shuddered. “A hippie.”

“Yes,” Sam said with an eye roll. “He was the manifestation of your nightmares.”

“I’m trying to be serious.”

“Sorry, go on.”

After a reedy cough, Dean continued. “He was fucked up, man. He took your being possessed by Lucifer almost as badly as I did. He pretended to not care and all, kept having orgies in his cabin, but I could tell it was just him… giving up, I guess.” He coughed again, and it shook his shoulders. Sam forced himself not to stand and get Dean water, knowing it would only piss him off. “And then when we were driving to this place where Lucifer was going to throw down with future-me, he said some things.”

“What kind of things?” Sam asked, voice soft. He was surprised that Dean was deciding to talk about this now; usually it took an effort the size of an apocalypse to get anything out of Dean, especially in regards to Cas. He was wary that it took the trials, making Dean inexplicably sick, that lead to this conversation.

Dean pulled the blanket tighter around his shoulders. “He said that him turning human was my fault. He said that we were in a fucking… _relationship_.”

Sam didn’t even have to hide his surprise, since he felt none.

“He said that once he started having feelings for me, that’s when he started falling,” Dean continued, looking blankly down at his hands. “He said that under no circumstances can I let that happen in my own timeline. I thought he meant that I shouldn’t let Lucifer possess you—which, of course he meant that too, but—he mostly meant that I shouldn’t let him and I be in a relationship.”

Sam expected a deflective joke, or a brush-off of any possibility that Dean and Cas could have a relationship in any timeline. But Dean had become more somber after the trials started, so there wasn’t one.

“Why did he say that?” Sam asked.

“Because he hated being human.” Dean winced. “He said he was fucked over from the moment we went down that route. He said he was miserable, and resented me.”

“That doesn’t sound like something Cas would say,” Sam said, straightening in his chair. “He’s your friend, Dean, and would do anything to help you. Even if it meant falling.”

Dean shrugged. “It’s plausible.”

“No, not really. Sure, Cas would hate being human, but I don’t think he would ever blame you. Or _resent_ you, of all things.” Sam tried to give Dean a encouraging smile. “It was just Zachariah playing tricks, Dean. Messing with your head, like he was with that whole back to the future bit. That’s all it was.”

Dean continued to stare at the ground. He nodded; it didn’t look convincing. “Maybe.”

Sam said, firmly, because he knew exactly what his brother is thinking, “You’re not bad for Cas, Dean. You’re not screwing up his life with your friendship. And even if he became human, that wouldn’t change.”

“Guess we’ll only find out if he becomes human." Dean glares at his hands. "Which won’t happen, if I have anything to say about it.”

“I really don’t think you have to worry about it,” Sam sighed. He frowned. “Speaking of which—has Cas been around here yet today? To heal you?”

“He can’t heal me,” Dean said with a roll of his eyes. “We’ve been over this.”

“Well, he can at least push back your symptoms a little bit. Until the next trial.”

Dean shrugged, the blanket slipping off his shoulders. “Haven’t seen the dude, either way. Last I heard he’s canvassing Heaven for some thing Kevin translated in the tablet. Which he should be doing, instead of drainin’ his grace on me.”

“Okay.” Sam rapped his fingers against the desktop. “Well if he’s not here by tomorrow morning—“

“I’ll call him, Mom, geesh.” Dean stood, unsteadily swaying, the blanket falling in a heap around his feet. “I need a drink.”

“Do you really think you should—“

“‘m sick, not dying. I’m entitled to a freaking beer.”

Sam watched his retreating back. He only allowed himself a moment of bone-deep, miserable worry before pushing open the book in front of him and continuing to read.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hope this provides clarity on ... the mindset?... of dean. and why some of the bad stuff from the past went down : ) 
> 
> <3 thanks for your feedback on the last chapter - I love hearing your guys' thoughts and what you're thinking as I'm posting these chapters.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Every path but your own is the path of fate. Keep on your own track, then.”
> 
> -Henry David Thoreau, 'Walden'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fanart by the incomparable [@winchester-reload](https://winchester-reload.tumblr.com) at the end of this chapter

There are these movies that Dean insisted Cas watch while he was staying in the bunker. ‘Spaghetti Westerns,’ Dean affectionately called them. Cas found that he doesn’t have a particular affinity for them, but seeing what joy it gave Dean to explain them to Cas, to having ‘movie nights’ with him to further his Western films education—Cas just let it happen.

One thing Cas learned was the concept of a ‘stand-off’: when two or more cowboys stood across from each other and poised their guns in front of their waists to shoot first. Nobody would move until someone’s finger twitched toward the trigger.

It’s a comparison that Cas can’t help but think of now: both he and Dean sit on one side of the kitchen table, Bob and May on the other. Their collection of guns lay on the table in the middle of them. Both parties decline to speak, and instead glare at each other from across their folded arms. Blood trickles lazily from Dean’s punched eye; Cas holds his sore arm awkwardly.

A stand-off.

With their cover blown, May and Bob have completely transformed in personalities. The prim, proper, and fluorescent May has her feet propped on the table as she leans back, teetering on one leg of the chair. Her once vacant and easygoing expression is discerning and sharp.

Bob’s congenial, open attitude has evaporated, leaving a hunched-over man with hooded eyes, mirroring Dean’s glare, eyes constantly glancing toward his gun.

Cas knows what he would do, were his grace still intact, to break the stand-off: blast May and Bob across the room. His fingers even twitch toward May and Bob as he imagines the full energy of his grace pulsing, forcing May and Bob away from Dean, their threat neutralized.

It’s a nice thought.

“So what the hell now?” May snaps into the silence. It makes Cas minutely jump.

“You can start by explaining what you’re doing here,” Dean snaps right back. He moves, finally, his fingers drumming against the table in a move that Cas recognizes as Dean’s attempt to look casual.

“Hunting, same as you.”

“For six _months_?” Dean snorts. “That’s some slow play. Either you’re the shittiest hunters I’ve ever met or you’re pulling a fast one on us.”

May slams all legs of her chair onto the ground and pitches forward, finger pointed. “Listen, kid. You don’t even _know_ what you stumbled into. This monster—”

Bob pushes her backward. “We don’t know them, May. Can it.”

Dean opens his mouth to argue, but Cas gently lays a hand on his arm. “What made you think that we’re the monsters?” he asks.

Bob considers him through narrow eyes. “Your flimsy jobs, for one. I didn’t believe for a second that you’re a doctor. And all suspicions were confirmed when your husband couldn’t even fake his way through a conversation with me about his ‘job’ at the power plant.”

“Whatever, man,” Dean mutters, “you guys weren’t acting so innocent yourselves, what with the creepy Stepford Wives act.” He gestures to May, who smiles back unpleasantly.

“Just keeping my cover better than you, dear,” May says in her familiarly fake sing-song tone.

Dean turns to Cas. “Dude. I want to punch her.”

“Later, Dean,” Cas says dismissively, orienting himself toward Bob. He folds his hands on the table and does his best to look intimidating. “We don’t like you, and you don’t like us. But we are clearly hunting the same monster. Why aren’t you telling us what you think it is?”

“Because we’re not looking to form teams here,” Bob says with a rap of his fist against the tabletop. “We don’t even know who you are.”

“Castiel and Dean.”

Bob rolls his eyes. “Not _that_ —we don’t know where the hell you’re stationed or who you know. Or if there’s any mutual hunter acquaintances that can vouch for you.”

“Rudy hooked us up with the house,” Dean offers, gesturing around them.

“Never heard of ‘im.”

“You know Bobby Singer?”

“Nope.”

“I hunted with Rick Davis,” says Cas.

“And there’s a strike three.” Bob flattens both palms on the table, stands from his chair. “This ain’t convincing in the slightest, boys. If you don’t give us a good, solid reason to trust you right now, we’re treating you as suspects.”

Dean sighs explosively, pinching the bridge of his nose between two fingers. “Fine. I didn’t want to go name-dropping, but. My full name’s Dean Winchester.”

May and Bob stare at him impassively. “Who?”

“Winchester,” Dean says, slower this time. “Like… the Winchester brothers? Saved the world from the apocalypse, what, two time?” He looks to Cas, who holds up a hesitant three fingers. “Fine, 3 times. Either way, we’re pretty big, man.”

“What the hell are you on about?” Bob barks.

Cas leans forward, squinting. “You haven’t heard of the Winchesters?”

“Fuck no.”

“We have _books_ written about us,” Dean sputters. “A freaking fandom for fuck’s sake—”

Cas says, putting a patient hand on his arm, “Dean. I don’t think they know you.”

“Well they _should_.”

“You realize you sound a little nutty, going on about apocalypses that don’t exist?” May scoffs. “Next thing you’ll be saying is that angels are real.”

Dean throws up his hands. “They _are_!”

“Enough of this bullshit!” Bob shouts. He lunges forward toward his gun, his temper lit like a sudden flint against steel.

Cas pushes Dean out of the way, slamming his fist against Bob’s, onto the table. In response, Bob’s fist slams into Cas’ arm. Cas knocks his own fist against Bob’s head. Dean and May both grab onto their respective hunting partners, pulling them back.

“Cas,” Dean pants. His arm is across Cas’ chest, holding him back. “You okay?”

Cas doesn’t break eye contact with Bob, wishing very much in that moment that looks could kill. “Yes,” he says through clenched teeth. “If he behaves himself.”

“If I _behave_ myself?” Bob sputters, yanking against May’s grip. “Let me get that fucking—”

“Bob, calm your ass down,” May snaps, pushing him away with surprising force.  “Nothing will get solved if you just go around shooting people all the time.”

“Let’s just all take a breath,” Dean says. He pointedly looks at Cas and guides him back to the chair by a strong grip on his shoulder. “We’ll do better catching whatever this thing is if we’re calm. Got it?”

“Can’t believe I’m saying this but—I agree with the kid.” May glares at Bob. “You about finished?”

Bob shrugs off her grip, straightening his jacket. “Fine.” He sits again; Cas’ eyes track the movement. “Just give us info on what you know about this monster first—then we’ll tell you, _broadly_ , what we know.”

“That way we’ll know you’re legit, and not just dickhead monsters taking us for a trip,” May adds in. “Transparency and all.”

“Jesus, fine,” Dean sighs. He holds out his hand, ticks the facts down on his fingers. “Monster targets people who live alone or are lonely in some way. Last vic had a vampire bite on his neck, but no blood drained out; either someone tried to make it look like a vamp, or we’re dealing with a different kind of monster that bites its victims for fun. We think it’s a Vetala.”

“We _did_ think so,” Cas adds, stiffly, “until Dean was psychically attacked at your dinner party.”

May holds up a hand. “Wait, wait. That’s why you both left so early? How do you know it was a psychic attack?”

Dean sighs, eyes fluttering closed briefly before he says, “My brain felt like it was being put through a blender, for one. And, not to mention I kept remembering every painful memory that’s happened—from my first gunshot wound to my brother dying.” He shifts in his chair. “If Cas wasn’t there to help, I wouldn’t have even remembered where I was.”

Bob nods, slowly. “We thought it was a Vetala too.”

“But whatever you’re describing sounds freakier,” May says with a dramatic shudder.

“It could have been a curse,” Cas says. “Not necessarily within the monster’s abilities.”

“How did you get better?” Bob asks.

“Distance,” says Dean with a shrug. “Once we got home, it started to wear off.”

May and Bob look at each other. “Whoever—whatever—it is definitely was at our party.”

“No shit, geniuses,” Dean says with a roll of his eyes. “That’s why we thought _you guys_ were the monsters.”

May sighs and nudges Bob with her elbow. “We should just tell them. Four heads are better than two.”

“I still don’t trust them,” Bob says, glaring at Cas. Cas glares right back.

“Grumpy old bastard,” May huffs. She rummages in her coat pocket, withdrawing a crumpled sheet of paper. She slides it over to Cas; he catches it before the paper flings off the table. “This is what we have so far, on every person in the neighborhood. Luckily since it’s a gated community, there’s only 30 to really speak of. Well, 28, now that we know you two are clean.”

Cas can feel Dean’s warmth as he leans toward him, looking over his shoulder as Cas smooths the crinkled paper onto the table with his palm. He doesn’t recognize most of the names on the list, save for the three names at the top, ranked in order: 1. _Dean and Cas,_ 2\. _Faith._

“Is this ranked in order of suspicion?” Cas asks.

May snaps her fingers, pointer and thumb imitating a gun. “Yup.”

Dean taps on Faith’s name, decisively. “I knew it. She’s shady, Cas. What did I tell you?”

Choosing to read rather then reply, Cas scans the paragraph by Faith’s name:

_Lives alone. When asked questions about her job, her given facts are incorrect. Really interested in the murders; seemed to insert herself into the investigation when police were around. Has been ‘on a trip’ each time the victims were killed. Overall creepy vibe._

“‘Overall creepy vibe’?” Cas asks, looking up.

“Sometimes it’s a gut thing,” May shrugs.

“Yup. She’s right,” Dean says, pointing a finger at her, this time in friendliness rather than threateningly like five minutes ago. “And my gut says that Faith is fishy.”

“You’re letting your annoyance with her ‘flirtations’ with me cloud your judgement,” Cas grumbles.

“Is she flirting, or just interested in ripping out your jugular?” May asks.

“Neither,” Cas grumbles with a roll of his eyes. “I’ve spent time alone with her. I don’t get a threatening air from her.”

“Either way,” Bob says, grabbing his gun from the table and tucking it into his coat, “she’s the best suspect we got, now that we know you two are clean.”

“Hang on.” Dean grabs the paper from Cas, holding it closer to his face. “‘Obviously monsters that hunt in romantic pairs’? Why did you write that next to our names?”

“Well it makes more sense _now_ ,” May says, “since we know that you’re just married hunters.”

Dean gives Cas a horrified look. “Uh—”

“Risky gambit, getting married to your hunting partner,” Bob says with a click of his tongue, rising to his feet. “But I guess we can’t help where we find romance.”

“Yeah, we’re not a couple,” Dean says. Cas tries to ignore the decisiveness in his tone.

“Really?” May scoffs. “Huh. Fooled us on one thing, I guess.”

Cas folds the note and slides it back across the May. “So, what is our plan?” he asks, eager for a topic change.

“There’s a soccer game tomorrow,” Bob says. “An adult intramural thing hosted by the housing association; whole neighborhood should be there.”

May mirrors Bob, pocketing her weapon and standing. “We noticed that this monster tends to strike when there’s a large group of people. That’s why we’ve been putting on barbeques, parties, etcetera—anything to lure it out.”

“We should have two people at the game talking to people, two people scouting the area for any weird activity,” Dean says.

“That was our plan,” Bob says with a grin that holds no humor. “Except now we have twice the manpower.”

“It’s been a while since the monster has fed, too,” Cas adds. “The typical timespan between victims is one week. It’s been two.”

“It might know that we’re hunters,” Dean says. “Lying low for safety.”

“That’s what we’re afraid of,” May sighs, zipping up her coat. “You two don’t exactly blend in as typical neighbors. Monster’s probably suspicious.”

“Which is why we’re keeping our eye out, and acting fast,” Bob says. He pulls open the front door; Cas can feel the night chill seep in across their floor. “We’ll meet you at the field, ten a.m. We can discuss strategy more then. And for God’s sakes, try to blend in.”

“I’ll take a page out of your creepy Stepford Wives book,” Dean says with a roll of his eyes.

May waves and flashes a wink at Dean, waving her fingers goodbye. “Don’t forget to ice that head, sweetie.”

Dean holds up a middle finger in return. The door slams in Bob and May’s wake.

Cas and Dean sit shoulder-to-shoulder, staring at the front door.

“Well that was… unexpected,” Cas hedges.

“I would choose the word ‘annoying’, personally,” Dean grumbles, fingers gingerly exploring the back of his head.

Cas stands, pushing his chair into the table, the legs scraping against the ground. “What else hurts, beside your head?” he asks as he walks to the fridge.

“Whatever, I dunno,” Dean replies distractedly. “How the hell do we know May and Bob aren’t the shady ones, huh? They keep asking us for background info, but what about them? What if they’re the monsters?”

“I find it doubtful.” Cas opens the freezer and makes a face of the lack of ice in the ice tray. He grabs a bag of frozen peas instead. “If they were the monsters, they would come after us with more than guns. Or a similar psychic attack that you experienced before.”

Dean sighs, running his fingers through his hair. “I guess.”

“And they fought similar to hunters. Their technique—”

“Yeah, Cas, I get it.” Dean flinches when Cas pushes the bag of peas against his head. “What the hell, man?”

“You need to ice your head, Dean. Do you feel dizzy? Disoriented?”

“No, Mom,” Dean grumbles, holding the bag of peas with one hand and waving Cas off with the other.

Undeterred by Dean’s unwillingness to be taken care of, Cas kneels in front of him, gently touching the broken skin around Dean’s eye. “It doesn’t look like you’ll need stitches,” he muses, “but maybe a bandaid. I have a butterfly bandage in my pack upstairs.”

“Since when you’d learn first aid?” Dean snorts.

“Since I had to,” Cas responds firmly. Dean’s jaw snaps shut.

Dean looks away, glaring at a spot on the table. “What about your arm?” he mutters, tilting his head toward where Cas gingerly holds it at his side.

“Sprained elbow, I think. Nothing serious.”

“Sure.” Dean chews his lip. “Guess we have no choice but to trust them. Even though they put a gun to our heads.”

“ _Your_ head,” Cas corrects. For some reason the words seem to lodge in his throat.

Dean glances at him; seems to pick up the undercurrent of Cas’ tone. “I don’t think he was gonna pull the trigger, Cas,” Dean says, his voice softer.

“You don’t know that.”

“Well can you blame him for doin’ it, when you had a gun to his partner’s head?”

“I can blame him for going for the gun a second time,” Cas grits out. He stands, fist clenching the edge of the table. “We don’t need to talk about it anymore.”

Dean stands and follows him, the peas bag crunching against his head as he adjusts it. “Tell me what you’re thinking, Cas. You seem pissed.”

“I’m not.”

“Do you not trust them either? Is that it?”

“I don’t trust anyone but you and Sam,” Cas replies, “but I’ve learned that in the hunting world, and just from a general tactical perspective, there is safety in numbers. So I have no objection to working with them as long as Bob doesn’t attack you again.”

“Then what’s up?”

Cas stops. How can he explain the helplessness he felt seeing Dean with a gun to his head, when just a mere year ago, he could have blasted Dean’s attacker across the room with a single glare? How he can’t even offer anything to heal Dean with now but a bag of frozen vegetables?

It’s impossible to explain to a human the infinitely small space he has to occupy, when once he could have expanded himself across the galaxy. Where once he could protect the man he loves, and now can do nothing but watch as he’s put in danger.

“Cas?” Dean asks hesitantly. He puts the bag of peas on the counter. “What’s the matter?”

Cas closes his eyes against the tide of emotions swelling in his chest. “I couldn’t protect you,” he admits, almost a whisper.

“Cas—”

“He had a gun to your head, and I couldn’t—” He stops and scrubs a hand through his hair. “He could have pulled that trigger and I wouldn’t be able to heal you, save you—”

“Whoa hey, Cas, relax,” Dean says, grabbing his shoulders. “The point is it didn’t happen. I’m fine, and you don’t have to start up the martyr routine for something that didn’t happen.”

“The _point_ ,” Cas snaps, pulling away from Dean’s touch, “is that I don’t have my grace anymore.” He regrets the way that Dean’s face is pinched into his tell-tale guilty expression, the way that Dean hunches in on himself, but the words just tumble forward, and Cas is unable to stop them. “I’m completely useless. I can point a gun, but that’s the extent of it. I used to be able to—to move mountains, if I wanted to.”

“I know, Cas,” Dean sighs.

“No, you _don’t_ know. You’ll never know. You don’t know what it’s like to extract the very essence of yourself and throw it away forever.”

There’s a sharp silence; Dean looks away, fists clenched and jaw set. Cas’ stomach sinks. “I… I didn’t mean it like that.”

“I know, Cas.” Dean’s voice is scratchy, toneless.

“I didn’t throw it away. It was for a good cause.”

“Yeah, I fucking know. You said that.” Dean moves around the kitchen island, knocking the leg of a stool, making it scrape harshly against the tile. “Going to bed. We’ll figure out this Bob and May bullshit in the morning.”

A foreboding sense of deja-vu clutches Cas. _This is why you left,_ his mind clamors. So he would stop saying emotionally-charged, upsetting things to Dean, to stop his tirade of emotions.

But something he didn’t, before he left, was try in the moment.

“Dean. _Wait_.” He reaches out, clutches Dean’s arm. Dean doesn’t look back. Holding Dean by a metaphorical thread, he pulls against him, to stop him from going up the stairs with all his human, emotional strength. “I didn’t mean it. I don’t know what to say—when I feel this way. All I do is hurt you, when I try to explain and I—” He closes his eyes and tugs at Dean, harder. Dean still doesn’t look. “I need you to know that I don’t mean it that way.”

Dean’s shoulders slouch. “I always knew that, Cas. I never blamed you for sayin’ that stuff.” He licks his lips, still can’t look Cas in the eye. “Just… you left. The going got bad, and you just cut and run. You gotta stick around when shit gets hard.”

“I know,” Cas says, “and I was wrong to do that. I won’t leave again.”

“How am I supposed to trust that?” Dean shrugs his arm from Cas’ grasp. “How the hell do I know that when things get tough, you won’t cut and run again?”

“You—you don’t. But I’ll prove to you that I won’t, Dean. You just need to let me try..”

“Yeah? What makes this situation any different?” Dean steps toward him, crowds Cas’ space. “What about that year away from me, away from Sam, away from the bunker, makes anything change? What, you read Thoreau and other dead guys’ books while meeting hippies in the shelters and singing kumbaya? You had some profound bullshit human experience?”

“No,” Cas grits out. “No, I—I know that leaving was a mistake, that it doesn’t solve anything.”

“Oh, yeah? Then what’s the solution, Cas?”

He hangs his head. “I don’t know.”

Dean sucks in a breath through his nose, letting it out in a gust, his shoulders slumping. “Okay. All right. Well, if you figure it out, let me know.”

They stand in miserable silence. Cas’ mind slams into walls trying to figure out the words to say, only hearing a harsh buzzing in his ears instead.

“I’ll take the couch tonight,” Dean finally says.

“No.” Cas’ voice comes out hoarse; he licks his lips and clears his throat. “No, Dean. You should take the bed. I haven’t slept on the couch yet.”

“Fine.” A beat. “You know, Cas, if you don’t want to say the shit that hurts me, then how about you start saying what you really mean?”

“I know,” Cas says, eyes downcast. _I try, but I don’t even know,_ he doesn’t say.

With a sigh, Dean begins to walk away; has his foot on the step. By its own volition, Cas’ hand snatches out and grabs the hem of Dean’s shirt. Dean turns back, eyes questioningly downcast at Cas’ clenched fingers. Looks at Cas, who feels otherwise paralyzed.

_Don’t go_ , is what Cas can’t seem to say. _I’ll get better at saying what I mean. I’ll read every book in the world if it could help me understand how to properly express how I feel about you. Just don’t_ go _—_

The quiet moment hangs far too long. But Dean doesn’t pull away; instead gently disentangles his shirt from the confines of Cas’ fingers.

He tugs on Cas’ wrist. “C’mon. No point in only me sleeping in the huge bed while you’re uncomfortable on the couch, right?”

“Right,” Cas repeats, albeit breathlessly. They walk up a step. “Dean… I’m sorry.”

Dean gives him a weary smile. “I know, Cas. I know that.”

Cas nods. “Good, that’s… good.” The fight leaving his shoulders, he lets Dean guide him upstairs.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (I was told by my thesis writing seminar professor to not apologize after presenting my writing to anyone, and just to be confident and own it, so i'm going to try but. just know that i had a bad writing week and do want to apologize for this chapter even though i will take the sage advice of my professor and WON'T.)
> 
> <3 thanks for reading, and for everyone who commented, I'm trying to keep on top of the comments because I LOVE communicating with you guys about this story. honestly your interest in it keeps me going and motivated. :)


	17. interlude; aug. 2013

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so... this chapter was intensely personal to write. and i feel obligated to give a warning that is to do with depressed cas - read the (spoilery) endnotes if you need more info.

A few months after Cas became human, Sam took Cas on a drive. He thought that it would maybe be good to get out of the bunker, away from Dean’s mother-henning, and breathe some fresh air. Sam could sense a tension in Cas building that he knew all too well: a tension that was ready to snap at any minute.

Fresh air often helped, in Sam’s experience.

Sometimes.

He drove them to a nearby dam, a couple of hours away from the bunker. It stood towering over a wide and expansive river; there was a bridge that they could stand on and watch the water rush under their feet. Well-meaning people had stuck signs on the bridge with encouraging, cautionary words such as _Life is worth living for,_ and _No problem is too big to conquer_. Sam cringed, hoping Cas wouldn’t notice the signs.

But instead Cas seemed entranced by the water. He held himself over the railing, staring at the white rapids below. The white noise made it comfortable enough for them to say nothing for a while as they stood side-by-side.

Sam shoved his hands in his pockets and regarded Cas’ back, wondering if this was even helping.

After approximately forty minutes, Cas turned. His eyes were wide and more animated than Sam had seen them in a while. “I feel regret,” he said. His mouth twisted as he said it, as if the emotion tasted like something bitter.

Nodding, Sam accepted it. “Okay. What else?”

“Resentment. I’m… I’m resentful.” Cas stared down at his hands, like he couldn’t believe it.

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

“Cas.” Sam put a hand on Cas’ shoulder, giving him a steady look. “I think you know why.”

“No, I don’t.” Cas' jaw set in a familiarly obstinate position.

“ _Cas._ ” Sam jostled his arm, hoping it’ll jostle sense into him, too. “It’s been months since you fell, and you’re still walking around mostly silent, barely eating, acting like a ghost. You need to figure out what the hell is going on in your head. For your sake. For _Dean’s_ sake.”

There’s a flicker of anguish at the mention of Dean, of naked vulnerability before Cas’ eyes shutter closed again. He repeated, in a stronger tone, “I told you: _I_ _don’t know why_.”

Whipping his arm from Sam’s grasp, Cas turned back to the railing of the bridge. His fingers trailed across a particular sign, one that said: _‘The rockiest roads lead to the most beautiful destinations.’_ He glared at it. Hesitated only a moment before suddenly springing up onto the railing, standing on the top, feet precariously toeing the edge.

“Whoa, hey, Cas!” Sam ran forward and caught the cuff of Cas’ pant leg whipping in the wind, as if that would make a difference. “What the hell are you doing?”

Cas tilted his head toward the water below. His voice was so quiet, Sam almost didn’t catch his words. “When I had my wings, I could jump from this height. I wouldn’t fall; I would just go up in the air, rising, to wherever I wanted to go.”

“Cas—”

“Do you know what it’s like to fly, Sam?" Cas' words tumbled over each other, not waiting their turn to be spoken. "I tried to explain it to Dean, but he hates flying. Soaring through the air, free, ungrounded, it’s inexplicable.”

“Cas, you’re scaring me. Please, get down. Dean would kill me if you fell. Hell, _I’d_ kill me—”

“I’m limbless, Sam. It feels as if all my limbs were amputated, when I lost my grace.”

“That sounds… awful. But Cas, but you really need to get down from there. It's not safe.”

"I used to love to observe humanity from this height. But now I want nothing to do with it."

"There's nothing wrong with feeling that way," Sam protested. "There's nothing wrong with what you're feeling."

Cas just closed his eyes, swaying in the wind.

“Okay, fine." Sam tightened his grip on Cas’ ankle. You said you feel resentment? Well, I know why. You feel resentment toward Dean, right? For what you gave up. And it’s not that he’s not worth it, but—you’re reeling from it, and you’re in a bad place, and you just need _someone_ to blame. I’ve been there, I get it, okay?”

Cas remained staring in the distance.

“Cas,” Sam continued, hanging his head in frustration, “Cas, it doesn’t make you a bad person. It doesn’t mean that you’re betraying Dean by feeling this way. What you're feeling is  _human._ ”

“Human.” Cas scoffed. “Right.”

“Just—come down okay?”

For a few moments, all Sam heard was the wind whipping in his ears. Cas made a movement, and Sam almost sprang to his safety, thinking he was going to jump; instead Cas suddenly opened his mouth, chest forward, shouting, “ _FUCK!”_

Sam stood in shocked silence as Cas' bellow echoed through the valley. The sound of the rushing water below swallowed Cas’ outburst whole.

Cas pulled his ankle from Sam’s grasp, twisting his body and jumping down, his feet hitting the concrete next to Sam. “I’m sorry,” he sighed, eyes downcast at his scuffed sneakers.

“It’s fine,” Sam said, dazed. It was the most emotion he’d ever seen out of Cas. "I think we should go home. What do you think?"

Cas shrugged. 

"Dean said he was making chili for dinner. He said it was your favorite, or something, besides burgers. You like that, right?”

Another shrug. Sam sighed, knowing he wouldn't get anything more than that. He turned toward the direction of the car. 

“What does this sign mean?”

Sam stopped; looked at where Cas’ hand rested. After a glance, Sam scoffed at the familiar quote. “Oh, yeah, that. It’s a weird one to put on here, huh?”

“‘ _T_ _he cost of a thing is the amount of what I call life which is required to be exchanged for it, immediately or in the long run_ ,’” Cas read out loud. He blinked. “I don’t understand it.”

“It’s kind of weird phrasing,” Sam said, “but I know where it’s from. It’s from a book; _Walden._ I can let you borrow it when we get home, if you want.”

Cas tapped the laminated sign impatiently. “But what does it mean?”

“Uh, well. As far as I know, it’s about how much you value something. And what price you’re willing to pay to keep it. Whatever that cost is.” Sam shrugged, scrunched his face against the wind. It made his eyes water. “At least, I think that’s what it means.”

“I see.” Cas stared at the sign a moment longer, expression inscrutable. As the silence passed, Sam realized that he couldn’t figure out what Cas was feeling if he tried. Whatever cover opened to a page of Cas’ emotions, it was once again firmly closed. Sam wasn't sure if he'd ever be able to see it again.

Cas turned to Sam, shoulders hunched. “I’d like to go back to the bunker, now.”

Sam sighed. Nodded. “Okay, Cas. Let’s go home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> more detailed trigger warning: Cas is severely depressed, gets up on a ledge, talks about jumping (not in the suicidal sense, just that he could do it as an angel and now can't do it as a human). overall, just a bad mental state from Cas.
> 
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> 
> thanks for reading, everyone. like i said, this was a really emotional chapter for me to write. so i hope it resonated in some way. more next week - and as always thank you so much for reading and providing feedback. it really, truly helps my writing of this story.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “The light which puts out our eyes is darkness to us.”
> 
> Henry David Thoreau, 'Walden'

It’s the second day in the row of waking up next to Cas, and Dean feels no less excited about it.

There’s a way that the morning sunlight hits Cas’ hair that makes his heart constrict. Something damningly endearing about the way that Cas rubs the heel of his hand against his eye to rouse himself from sleep. Dean had somehow attached himself to Cas as he slept, waking up with Cas in a tangle of limbs, Dean’s nose poking into Cas’ hair, Cas’ face shoved into Dean’s shoulder. Neither of them seem to care.

Dean knows he could wake up with Cas like this every morning: slowly, gently, lovingly. It’s what scares him the most.

And even though he knows that when this hunt is over, when they go back to their regular lives, that this fake relationship will be impossible to maintain, Dean nevertheless can’t help but soak in the moments; soak in Cas.

“We should go out for breakfast,” he says.

“Don’t we have food here?” asks Cas, poking his head through the hole of a fresh t-shirt he pulls on, making his hair impossibly messier.

“Well, yeah. Boring food. I want something that Sam would pull a bitch face at me for eating.”

Cas grins. “So something covered in bacon, grease, and salt?” He pulls on a pair of socks, hopping when he loses his balance.

“Dude.” Dean snaps his fingers. “Exactly.”

Shrugging on a flannel overshirt (Dean notices that it’s one of his, but doesn’t mind), Cas says, “Sure, we can do that. Where did you want to go?”

Dean frowns, pulling on his jacket. Truth is, he doesn’t care. He’s not even thinking about the food, which is a frightening first. There’s just something about the house, about the fake marriage that they’ve created, that is both so great yet so repressing that Dean feels like he needs to strike a sense of balance again. Get into Baby, drive some miles with Cas beside him, like it used to be.

“We’ll get whatever food we find,” Dean declares. He scoops his keys off the bedside table and rolls from the bed, onto his feet. “Let’s just drive.”

They’re not due to meet Bob and May for another two hours, so Dean takes his time. He lets himself sit for a moment after springing the Impala to life, closing his eyes and smiling briefly at the familiar vibrations under his feet, the audible purr of her engine. He doesn’t even feel self-conscious when he sees Cas smiling at him.

He drives them to a McDonald’s drive-thru that he remembers seeing when first arriving with Sammy, eager to get something fast. Handing Cas’ egg-white no-cheese-breakfast sandwich to him, and only briefly making fun of him for it, he orients the Impala out of the drive-thru and points her to the open road. It’s the same way out of town that he drove just two days earlier when he was eager to put distance between himself and Cas.

“Sam’s right, you know,” Cas says as he takes a thoughtful bite of his sandwich, “all the carbohydrates and salt you consume will kill you early.”

“More likely to get ganked by a vamp than a clogged artery,” Dean grumbles. He peels the crinkly paper off his bacon-loaded egg sandwich. “Besides, you spent way too much time around Sam after becoming human. He influenced all that hippy-dippy vegan crap onto you.”

“I don’t eat vegan,” Cas protests. “And I always feel better eating salads rather than burgers. It’s better for my body. And as Sam taught me, eating healthy benefits me not only physically, but mentally.”

“You just sit over there and enjoy your boring, healthy lifestyle and I’ll enjoy my bacon.” Dean takes a bite to emphasis his point. He tilts his head at the glove compartment. “Find a tape, will ya? I’m taking us on a mini road-trip joyride before we have to meet these fake hunters.”

“You think they’re fake?” Cas asks, digging around in the collection of tapes.

“They’re fishy, that’s for sure. They seemed pretty eager to know who we are, but didn’t give us their own credentials.”

“I did find that odd.”

“Yeah. So we’re keepin’ an eye on them at that soccer game today.”

Cas nods. Withdraws a tape and sticks it into the dock.

“You _would_ pick one of Sammy’s,” Dean says with a roll of his eyes. “I hate this guy.”

“Who is he?”

“Kurt Vile. He’s a douche. Sam somehow got his hands on a limited edition tape while they were selling online.”

“I like his voice,” Cas replies with an air of offence. “I don’t see what’s wrong with it.”

“Put some Zeppelin in or somethin’, man.”

“No. You told me I could pick the music.”

“Geesh, give you just a little bit of power, and it all goes to your head,” Dean mutters.

“I find listening to all sorts of music helpful,” Cas says.

“Oh yeah? Why’s that?”

“A similar reason as to why I try to read so many books. The way humans seem to find their way through emotions and make sense of things are through books or music. I think it’s comforting to know that someone else has been through it before, and knows how to explain it.”

Dean whistles. “Geez, Cas. It’s just a country singer. You don’t gotta write a soliloquy for him.”

Cas rolls his eyes, but it’s good-natured. “If you say so.”

There’s a suspiciously long amount of silence from Cas’ end. It’s explained when Cas asks, “Dean, what is this?” while holding up a very pink, very sparkly tape case.

“Oh. Yeah. That’s a gag gift that Sam got me for Christmas one time.”

“‘Cinderella: the complete Disney soundtrack’,” Cas reads.

“In all its glory.”

“Huh.” Cas chews on his lip, staring at it for a moment, turning it over in his hands. He clicks the case open and pushes the eject button on the tape deck to. “We’re listening to it.”

“What? No, dude!” The Impala swerves as Dean attempts to bat Cas’ hand away.

“Don’t you want to further my education on human music?” Cas asks innocently.

“Yeah, your education on _music_ , not _noise_.” Dean grabs for the cassette tape again, ends up grabbing Cas’ wrist instead. “Seriously, Cas—”

“Too late,” Cas announces, successfully pushing the tape into the stereo. Dean cringes, waiting for the inevitable opening song that Sam made him listen to, loudly, when he got the present for him—

 _A dream is a wish your heart makes,_ sings the tape deck.

“Oh, _gross_ ,” Dean yells over the music.

_When you’re fast asleep—_

“This is soothing,” Cas comments, pitching his voice over the sound of the chorus.

“It’s my fucking nightmare.”

_In dreams you will lose your heartaches,_

“God, dude, turn it off,” Dean groans.

_Whatever you wish for, you keep._

“It’s a lovely sentiment,” Cas says. He has this shit-eating-grin on his face that Dean would very much like to punch—or kiss—off him right now.

A few more verses are sung. Dean glares at the road the entire time. Cas finally takes mercy on Dean’s sanity and ejects the tape. “I didn’t think it was that bad.”

“It was. Trust me.”

“Why did Sam get you that for a Christmas gift if he knew you’d hate it?”

“Well, firstly, he’s a little shit. And secondly, he was obsessed with _Cinderella_ when he was four and I had to sit and watch that slipper get lost and that stupid princess get her prince about twenty times a day.”

Cas chuckles. “There are worse things.”

“It was a _Disney princess_ movie.”

“Worse things.”

“Wrong.”

Cas grins, looking out to the scenery whipping past. He finishes the last of his breakfast and crumples the paper packaging. “It’s pretty out here.”

“Yeah. Who knew. That neighborhood we’re living in doesn’t hold a candle to what the rest of this place is like.”

“Developed land rarely does,” Cas says. “Similarly to the other suburban neighborhood we visited on the hunt with the cartoons coming to life.”

“Oh, yeah.” Dean huffs a laugh, clutching the wheel tighter. “I remember that one. You were a shitty interrogator.”

“I’ve gotten better,” Cas protests. “Interrogating humans and interrogating angels are entirely different things. I was one of the best interrogators in Heaven, I thought it would translate.”

“Like… violent interrogation?” Dean grimaces.

“Sometimes. But mostly intellectually. Trapping them mentally in their own lies.”

“Sounds badass.”

“It was.” Cas gives him a look. “So I’m not exactly ‘bad at everything’, as you said during that case.”

“I didn’t mean anything by that, Cas,” Dean says with a roll of his eyes. “You were freaking that woman out, that’s all.”

“I know I was. In hindsight, anyway.”

With a glance, Dean can see Cas staring straight ahead, jaw set. Dean grasps the steering wheel tighter, the leather cracking into his palms.

“You’re not bad at everything,” Dean says, softly. “I didn’t mean it like that.” He shifts in his seat. “Sorry.”

Dean can feel, rather than see, Cas’ smile. “Thank you for saying that, Dean.”

Clearing his throat with a cursory cough, Dean nods. “No problem. Just… wanted you to know.”

A loaded moment passes. Cas leans toward the dashboard. “I’d like to put the _Cinderella_ tape back in.”

“ _Jesus_ , Cas. Put something good in, would you?”

“You seem to take great joy in making fun of my tastes. I’m finding it increasingly annoying.”

“Teasing, Cas. It’s _teasing_. You don’t have to take everything so seriously, you big baby.”

Without taking his eyes off the road in front of them, Cas reaches out and punches Dean in the arm. Dean chuckles.

“We did have our disagreements in the past,” Cas says after a beat of silence. “Didn’t we?”

“Well, sure.” Dean shifts in his seat uncomfortably. “That’s what friends do, ya know? Not everything is supposed to be sunshine and butterflies.”

“I suppose not.”

Clearing his throat into his fist, Dean ventures, “But you know Cas, whatever bruises we gave each other, we got back on track. Right?”

“Except this time.”

He can’t even look at Cas; the vice around his heart contracts too painfully. He adjusts gears as they round a curve in the road with a little more force than necessary. “This time doesn’t have to be different.”

Cas turns his head to look at him; Dean knows, without even looking over, because he can feel his eyes boring into the side of his face.

“Things can change. We can work it out.”

Cas remains silent.

The Impala has always been a safe space for Dean. No matter what is happening in his life: a bad hunt, a mean father, a death of a friend, Sam’s absence at college—no matter what, the Impala welcomed him into its warmth and safe, albeit traveling, walls. Driving it makes him feel more hopeful. Stronger.

Dean takes a steadying breath. “You know… you’re different, Cas. You’re… I dunno. You seem more comfortable in your own skin. Before, it was pretty bad. Back in the bunker.”

Cas minutely slumps in his seat. “I know, Dean.”

“No, don’t feel guilty or anything, it’s just—I just meant that things seem different with you. In a good way. And what I’m saying is… that I’m trying too, okay? You’ve changed, and you seem better. And I’m trying to get there too.”

Cas says, voice barely above a whisper, “But you haven’t forgiven me.”

Dean sighs. “No, not yet. But I’m gonna keep trying, Cas. Okay? I’ll keep trying.”

He finally dares to look at him, just in time to see a flash of emotion twist Cas’ face. He breaks into a smile. “Okay.”

It’s not a lot, but somehow it feels like enough. They sit in silence for the rest of the ride, the Impala rumbling and the highway singing beneath them, the space between them finally feeling like home.

* * *

 

“You’re late,” Bob announces as Dean and Cas approach.

“By a freaking minute,” Dean barks back. “And hello to you too.”

“Hi boys,” May says pleasantly. She’s standing a few feet behind her partner, in her usual bright pink coat and make-up excessively pasted onto her face. The only thing that could possibly blow her cover is the fact that she‘s taking long drags of her cigarette.

Bob has reverted back into his now-uncharacteristic polo shirt and khaki pants. With no one to observe them, they both have their shoulders hunched in and faces drawn in a glare, clashing noisily with their outfits.

“I don’t even see anyone on the field yet,” Cas says, gesturing to the desolate field on their right.

May hooks a thumb over her shoulder. “Whole neighborhood will be here in 5 minutes, guarantee you. It’s a tradition for everyone to get sloshed on Bloody Marys before coming to watch the game tipsy.”

Dean shudders. “I don’t know what’s more terrifying: this gated community drunk and all packed together, or that someone had the bright idea to put vodka and tomato juice together in the first place.”

“Definitely the latter,” Cas says with a nod.

“Would you cut the crap and listen?” Bob snaps. “If May and I suspected you two of being something you’re not, you can sure as hell bet this whatever-it-is supernatural monster has smelled something fishy on you, too. So you need to amp up your cover, got it? While at the same time looking for any suspicious behavior.”

Dean pushes down a surge of irritation, rolling his neck and straightening his shoulders. “Listen, bud. We know how to hunt; we’re experts. And for the record, I don’t like the fact that you’re pullin’ innocent people into your little ‘experiment’ to see who acts fishy. Someone could get hurt on our watch.”

“This soccer game would have happened whether we were here or not,” May says, rolling a cigarette between her fingers. “If anything it’s good that we’re here. Maybe we can stop something before it happens.”

“It’s still dangerous since we don’t know who the monster is,” Cas says. “We don’t know who to keep our eye on.”

“My money’s on Faith,” Bob says. “May’s gonna watch her; she’s faked a friendship with her so Faith thinks they’re close. I’m going to be there, too, but also keeping my eye on the older couple that live down the street—Marcy and Dave.” He nods at Cas and Dean. “You two keep an eye on the Jerrys.”

“So, what, that’s our plan?” Dean asks. “Just sit around and wait for something suspicious to maybe happen?”

Bob’s grin is anything but friendly. “If you got another idea, rookie, I’m happy to hear it.”

“He’s far from a ‘rookie’,” Cas breaks in before Dean can, fingers in the air and bending at the incorrect timing of the emphasized word, “Dean and his brother have hunted more monsters than ten hunters combined. And he’s right; your plan is terrible.”

“We’ve been hunting this monster a hell of a lot longer than you,” May says, pushing off the wall. “We know how it operates.”

“A hell of a lot longer because you guys can’t catch the bastard,” Dean snaps. “I say we be more proactive than just sitting and waiting for someone innocent to get hurt. We need to set up a perimeter; be close to the darker corners in case it snatches someone.”

Bob narrows his eyes; sighs. “Fine. Jesus. If it’ll make you feel better, we’ll set up the goddamn perimeter.” He jerks his head at May. “You find Faith and sit with her, but stay close to the exit. The concession stand is close to the back of the bleachers, so I’ll hang around there.”

“Cas and I can still sit by the Jerrys,” Dean says, “but we’ll try to sit higher up than them.” He looks at Cas. “Bleachers aren’t that tall; we can jump down and run after someone if need be.”

Cas nods. “I agree. We need a good vantage point.”

“Doesn’t matter where everyone’s sittin’,” says Bob, “as long as we have eyes on who we suspect the monster is.”

“And the monster has struck in broad daylight before?” Cas asks.

“Last guy disappeared in the middle of a Super Bowl party. About 20 people in the house; no one saw anything happen, or saw him leave. But somehow it got him.”

Dean catches a glance with Cas. “We’ll keep an eye out. And if push comes to shove—” Dean half-withdraws the silver knife from under his jacket, “—we got back-up.”

Bob nods. Throws a cell phone; Cas catches it. “Call if there’s any trouble. We’ll be on the south side of the bleachers.” He tilts his head at May, indicating for her to follow.

After a hesitating glance at Dean and Cas, she flicks her cigarette to the ground and drives it into the dirt with her heel. She turns to follow her partner, her pastel pink coat floats on her heels in her wake.

Dean waits a moment until they’re out of earshot. “Something feels off,” he quietly says to Cas.

“It does.”

“Yeah. Can’t put my finger on it.” He jams his hands into his coat pockets and straightens. “Just no splitting up, got it? This is one of those times where there’s safety in numbers. You got your knife, right?”

“Dean.” Cas lays a hand on his tense shoulder. “I’m prepared. I know the drill.”

It does little to stop the anxiety from swirling in his gut, but Dean nods anyway. “‘kay. Let’s go find the Jerrys.”

As May predicted, people began filling the stands within the next few minutes. Dean leads Cas to one of the bleachers toward the top of the stands. It’s a better view to survey the audience and the whole field. Jerry and Jari sit only a few stands below them; they nod and smile as Dean and Cas walk by.

Dean hisses as he sits down, his legs touching the freezing cold metal. “Why the fuck are they doing a soccer game in the fall?” he grumbles. “Just stay inside and watch sports on TV like normal people.”

In mock sympathy, Cas tilts his head and raises his eyebrows. “Is the metal too cold? Would you like to sit on my lap?”

Dean chuckles and blows warm air into his cold, bare hands. “No, smartass.” He frowns at his fingers turning blue. “Do wish I brought some gloves, though.”

Cas is still for a moment before he reaches forward, taking Dean’s hands in his and holding them close to his chest. Shrugging, he says awkwardly, “It’ll be more convincing that we’re married if we hold hands. And then you can stay warm.”

“Uh, yup. Good thinking.” Dean stares straight ahead at the soccer field milling with people and tries not to let his brain short-circuit.

He also tries not to focus on the dry coarseness of Cas’ hands against his, too, but that’s also wholly unsuccessful.

“What do you think this monster’s gonna act like when it’s trying to feed?” Dean asks. His legs bounce up and down to stay warm. “It’s probably not thinking that straight since it hasn’t eaten for a week now.”

“Perhaps. Although my impression of this monster is that it’s calculated. It hasn’t made a wrong move yet, and it’s even tried to deceive hunters as to what it is.” At Dean’s questioning look, Cas raises his eyebrows. “Think about it: the fake vampire bites on the last victim’s skin, the supposed psychic attack on you. It seems to want us to think everything that it might be, but in fact isn’t.”

“You don’t think it’s a Vetala?”

With a shake of his head, Cas clutches Dean’s hands tighter to his coat. “I’m not convinced anymore. I think this monster, and any of its kind, has spent most of its life keeping hunters from knowing what it truly is. I’m beginning to think it may not be documented.”

“What, a monster _that_ stealthy?” Dean scoffs. “Everyone slips up at some point, Cas. It’s not _that_ smart.”

“This monster is.” He frowns at the back of Jerry and Jari’s head, pitches his voice lower. “Although I’m not convinced that it’s those two. I’m not sure why but I’m not.”

“It’s called a gut feeling, Cas. Every good hunter’s got a strong one. And I agree with you; they don’t fit the bill.” His eyes catch movement on the right side of the bleachers; he sees Faith, wrapped in a denim jacket and making her way up the stairs. “My money’s on someone else.”

Cas shakes his head. “I'm less concerned with _who_ it is... and  _what_ it is. I'm genuinely afraid of what it could be.” He looks at Dean. “Mostly because I’ve been alive for millennia and even I can’t figure out what it could be.”

Dean blinks; grimaces. He can’t really argue with that logic. Before he can reply, he hears a gratingly familiar voice behind him.

“Is this seat taken?”

Rolling his eyes briefly before pasting on a smile, Dean turns his head to Faith. She’s standing hesitantly at the entrance of the bleachers, gesturing to the empty seat beside Dean.

“It’s not taken,” Cas says when Dean doesn’t. “Please sit.”

“Thanks!” Faith flops to the seat beside Dean, making the metal shake. “I tried to find May, but she’s nowhere. Bob too. We said we’d meet on the south side, but I didn’t see them.”

 _Hunters my ass,_ Dean thinks. _Can’t even figure out the fucking direction to go in._ “Well, you can sit with us until you find her.”

“I appreciate it. Most people that come to these things get so drunk they can’t even hold a conversation. Just another weird neighborhood tradition I guess.” Faith gives a shudder, rubbing her hands up and down her arms. She leans forward, bypassing Dean to ask, “How are you doing, Cas?”

Cas clears his throat. “Oh, I’m… I’m fine.”

“You guys left May’s party so fast the other night, I was worried that something was wrong. Everything okay?”

Eyes flickering to Dean’s, Cas says slowly, “Oh… no, nothing wrong. Dean simply had food poisoning.”

“Probably the salad,” Dean adds with a barely pleasant smile. Reaching out to pat Cas’ knee, he continues, “But this guy nursed me back to health like the great husband that he is.”

“Uh. Yes.” Dean triumphantly notes that there’s a tinge of blush appearing on Cas’ cheeks.

“Well, I’m glad you’re okay.” She claps her gloved hands together. “So, Cas, know anything about soccer? I’m hopeless at sports and would love the explanation.”

Dean squares his jaw and tries not to make any reaction as Cas (somehow) explains the basics of soccer to her. He would bet his good hard-earned pool money that the conniving homewrecker knows at _least_ the basics of the sport. He makes a point to lean closer into Cas’ side, absentmindedly running a hand over Cas’ arm when he visibly shivers. He tunes out to the conversation for a while, just focusing on the Jerrys sitting in front of them, and the way that Cas’ body heat seeps into his.

“So a corner kick is good?” Faith is asking. She’s still bent forward, elbows on her knees, craning her body awkwardly around Dean to look at Cas.

“Mostly. It gives the offensive team the opportunity to set up for a goal.”

Dean scoffs and gives Cas a look. “Dude, where’d you learn so much about soccer?”

“I can watch a television, Dean.”

“Little shit,” Dean grumbles; he softens it with a grin and a poke into Cas’ side.

There’s a strange misstep in Faith’s expression before she breaks into a smile again. “You guys are cute,” she says tonelessly.

"Aw, gee, thanks." Winding an arm around Cas’ shoulders, Dean pulls him close and gives Faith the biggest shit-eating-grin that he can muster. “So, Faith, you spotted May yet?”

With a cursory glance at the bleachers, Faith shrugs. “Her and Bob must be arriving late.”

“Why don’t you go look for them?” Dean asks, his smile pasted. “Not like May to stand you up like that. She’s probably just waiting where you guys agreed to meet.”

“Uh, well. I guess I could.” She looks at Cas, almost like she's waiting for another opinion. When he stays silent, she stands. “Okay, well. See you later, Cas? Maybe you can explain more of the game to me."

“If we find you,” Dean cuts in before Cas can respond, his smile edging on a warning.

“Okay.” Faith tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and manages a smile. “See you guys.”

Cas shakes his head and watches her descend the stairs. “Dean...” 

“What?” Dean grumbles, letting go of Cas’ shoulders. He leans forward, elbows on his knees.

“She was just being nice.”

“I don’t care what she was being. I don’t trust her.”

“Then why did you send her away? Don’t you want to keep an eye on her?”

“Look, Cas.” Dean flicks a finger toward the left of them, down a couple of rows of bleachers. He waits for Cas to see the back of May’s blonde head. “May is right there. She’s been there the whole damn time. Faith just wanted to come up here and flirt with you; she was lying about not being able to find her.”

“Oh.” Cas frowns. “I didn’t know.”

“What really rubs me the wrong way,” Dean continues, adjusting his legs against the uncomfortable seat, “is that if Faith _is_ our monster, she’s taking an awfully obvious interest in you. Almost in a ‘you’re my next victim’ type of way.”

Cas nods and blinks into the sun. “If that is the case, and she does want me as a her next victim, then maybe we should play into that.”

“And set you up as bait? No way, Cas.”

“It’s just an idea.”

“Yeah, a fucking stupid one.” Dean clenches and unclenches his fist against his coat, feeling the imprint of the knife underneath it. “The self-sacrificial bullshit you pull is getting old, you know.”

“Well, I did have an exemplary role model in learning it.”

“Whatever,” Dean grunts. They sit for a few minutes, watching the chaos on the field in front of them unfold when the referee makes a call that one of the ‘coaches’ doesn’t agree with (Dean doubts that their expertise go any further than wearing the jersey that declares COACH in huge letters on their back). Dean doesn’t know anything about soccer like Cas apparently does, but he does know a drunkenly played, barely skilled game when he sees one.

“This is stupid,” Dean announces. “We’re supposed to sit here and look for ‘suspicious behavior’, but all I see are drunks and id—“

“Dean.” Cas grabs his arm and shakes it. “Faith and May are gone.”

Dean jumps to his feet and squints into the crowd. Sure enough, the seat where May and Faith once sat is empty.“That wasn’t the plan, right?”

“Definitely not. I don’t see Bob anymore, either. He was at the concessions stand a few minutes ago.”

“Son of a bitch. Of all the half-baked plans—“ Dean takes off down the stairs, knowing Cas will follow close behind.

“Do you think we were set up?” Cas whispers in Dean’s ear. They round the corner toward the concession stand.

“I don’t know. Get out your gun, either way. We don’t know what’ll be effective on this thing.”

There’s a winding, rowdy line at the concession stand. People are leaning over each other, loudly barking at the poor teenager behind the counter for hot dogs and more beer. Dean and Cas snake through a group of drunkenly giggly women, weapons tucked under their coats. They approach the back of the concessions stand, to the area under the bleachers.

Dean holds up a hand to stop Cas before they round the corner. He peeks his head around, peering into the darkness, at the fractured light spilling in through the cracks of the bleachers above. He gestures for Cas to follow.

“Could do with a fucking flashlight right about now,” Dean mutters over his shoulder. “Cover me, but stay at the borderline, okay?”

“Dean.” Cas tilts his head to a roughly shaped outline in the dark.

Dean snaps his gun to attention, holding it at chest-height. Cas mirrors him. They both stare, tense, waiting for their eyes to adjust, as the shape rises. To Dean’s eyes, it’s amorphous and hardly human—unless humans can have four limbs on either side of their body and no evidence of a neck. It begins to move slowly, unnaturally toward them.

“What the fuck is that?” Dean hisses.

“Whatever, it is, we need to shoot it,” Cas says.

“If that even _works_ —“

“You try a gun, I’ll try a knife.” Cas deftly pockets his gun in his back jeans pocket and yanks his silver blade from his jacket.

The figure springs at them.

Instinctively, Dean’s finger taps the trigger; he barely stops himself from shooting when he sees Cas position himself between Dean and the monster’s path. Cas’ knife gets knocked out of his hand by one of the monster’s dark limbs, and in a blur it throws Cas to the ground. Dean pistons himself toward the figure, but hits empty air instead. He slams to the ground. His shoulder twists in an unnatural way.

Cas’ shout of pain is what makes him jump back to his feet quicker than what his screaming muscles tell him. The monster is gone; Cas is completely covered in some black liquid that’s spreading all over him, threatening to cover his face.

Dean runs and slides to his knees, hands scraping the gelatinous liquid from Cas’ body. He ignores the stinging on his hands where the liquid touches. He yanks Cas to his feet and pulls him away.

“What the fuck is that thing?” Dean pants. “Where—“

“Went that way,” Cas manages to wheeze, pointing toward the concession stand. He picks his knife off the ground and unsteadily jogs in that direction.

Dean follows him, arm hanging uselessly at his side. Probably dislocated, he thinks when the movement makes him hiss in pain.

They run away past the concessions and away from the field, blinking and adjusting their eyes in the sunlight. The street on either side of them is empty.

“Son of a bitch!” Dean growls, stomping a foot. “How the hell did it get away?”

“Dean.” Cas points to the alley between the houses, straight ahead. “That’s where two of the previous victims were found.”

“Fuck.” A hand against his shoulder to steady it, Dean runs across the street and to the alley. Garbage cans belonging to the residents line the pavement; a few errant boxes and bags litter the ground.

Cas walks ahead of Dean, gun poised, looking in between trash cans. Dean looks at a recycling bin that’s turned on its side and sighs, knowing full well that, whatever that thing was, it’s long gone.

“We should call Bob, at least,” he mutters, fishing the burner cell out of his pocket. He flips it open and calls the only number in the contacts, assuming it’s Bob’s. He presses it to his ear and listens to the tinny ring over the receiver.

He must have hit his head, he thinks, because for some reason he can hear the ringing tone echoing in the alley, in simultaneous duet.

“Dean.”

Cas’ voice isn’t loud, but it cuts into the ringing tone Dean hears in both his ears. He lowers the phone, walking to where Cas stands. He notices, as he approaches, the deep-red burns on Cas’ neck that mingles with the remaining black liquid clinging to Cas’ skin. It’s enough to make him stare dumbfoundedly, the goddamn ringing cell phone tone in his ears, not looking away until Cas says his name again and points toward the ground.

There’s a body in front of them. It’s slouched at an irregular angle, with one arm hanging over a garbage can, and the other bent unnaturally across the chest. Black liquid, identical to what attacked Cas, covers most of the victim’s face.

The only thing that gives away the body’s identity is a familiar salmon-pink polo peeking out from under a leather jacket, and a phone buzzing errantly against the concrete by their feet.

Cas says, “Is that…”

“Yeah.” Dean runs a hand over his face; grimaces at the wide brown eyes that stare, unseeing, at them. “Yeah, that’s Bob.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to point out that I spooked myself writing that last part, and I honest-to-God jumped and shrieked when my cat suddenly sprinted around the corner, right at the moment when the monster leaped at Dean and Cas. hoo boy.
> 
> ALSO HEY BIG ANNOUNCEMENT everyone please check out the [amazing gifset](https://idjit.tumblr.com/post/182947170157/the-price-of-anything-is-the-amount-of-life-you) that my talented friend carrie (@idjit) made for this fic. it captures this story perfectly and i'm overwhelmed by how lovely it is.
> 
> I hope everyone has a good week! See you next Sunday:')


	19. interlude; jan. 2013

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> updating a day early! feeling chaotic good this weekend. (although the piles of grad school work i have to do would beg to differ)

After learning Dean was doing the trials to close the gates of Hell, Cas started hanging out in the bunker. A lot.

When he first learned about the trials, he was understandably pissed. Like Sam, his concern was that they didn’t fully know what the angel tablets said, and what the trials could entail. 

But, as usual, Dean’s stubbornness won out, and Cas was reduced to doing exactly what Sam was trying to do: help.

He healed Dean’s sickness with what grace he could manage, whenever Dean ran one of his really high fevers. He sat quietly by while Kevin deciphered through the tablets. He patiently watched some of Dean’s favorite movies with him, after a particularly long day when all Dean really needed was a distraction. 

And, mostly—Cas and Dean would have a  _ lot  _ of conversations. 

And Sam tried hard not to eavesdrop; he really did. Mostly he was successful—until after the second trial.

Dean came back from Purgatory paler and weaker than when he left Sam. He kept squeezing his hand against the wheel as he drove them home, grimacing at the sharp pain. Sam kept asking him what was wrong; Dean kept shutting him down. Sam covertly texted Cas to come meet them at the bunker.

Dean didn’t even act surprised to see Cas at the bottom of the stairs when they got home. He didn’t even protest when Cas laid two fingers on his forehead, channeling grace into him. Sam didn’t mention how pale and drawn Cas looked afterward.  

Dean announced he was going to the library to do some research in the absence of Kevin; Cas of course followed. Later, when Sam passed the doorway, he heard their hushed whispers and couldn’t help but stop, peering in.

Dean and Cas sat at the table, a blanket around Dean’s shoulders as he stared resolutely at the tabletop. Cas was leaning in and talking in a low whisper. Their backs were to Sam. 

“You have to tell him,” Cas said as soon as Sam passed the doorway, and that’s what got him to stop and flatten himself against the wall and listen. 

“I can’t do that, Cas,” Dean said.“You know what he would say.”

“He has a right to know.”

“We don’t even know if Kevin interpreted it that way. You said so yourself, there’s two ways of looking at it, semantically, and we don’t know if it means… y’know. Dying.”

Cas went quiet for a moment before saying, “But there is a very viable chance.” He continued over Dean’s protests, “So he has a right to  _ know _ . He’s your brother, Dean.”

“I don’t wanna worry him. I already got you breathing down my neck.”

A beat.

“I’ve made my feelings on the matter very clear. And your penchant for self-sacrifice doesn’t deter me from doing more research on my own to see if you can be saved. But, that being said, you are autonomous and can make your own decisions. As I can make mine.”

“You’re just tired of arguing with me, admit it.” There was a smile in Dean’s voice.

“Your stubbornness doesn’t quite inspire one to keep arguing,” Cas quipped. “It’s akin to bashing one’s head against a wall.”

“Whatever,” Dean snorted, “like you’re the authority on compromise.” 

Cas said after a moment, much more seriously, “Dean. I ask you again: stop doing these trials. We can find another way.” 

“Don’t fight me on this Cas, okay? It’s my decision. Butt out.” 

“But Dean—”

“No, Cas, listen, okay?” At Cas’ silence, Dean continued. “Bein’ down there in purgatory… it gave me some clarity again. Seeing Bobby, remembering that he basically gave his life for us—having Benny die just to get me out of purgatory again. I just keep thinking about these people that have sacrificed something, whether it’s their safety or their lives. And where does it get them? Dead. It’s a cycle: Sam sacrifices himself for me, I die for Sam, and then bad things keep happening because of it. With innocent people getting caught in the crossfire.”

“For a good cause,” Cas protested. “Your life—”

“Isn’t worth a dime compared to anyone else’s,” Dean snapped. 

“I disagree.”

“I know, Cas—and I appreciate you trying to help, okay? Healing me with your grace and everything. But I can tell that it’s not working. And every time you do it, you look weaker, like it’s draining you.” 

“I know my limits, Dean. And if I want to push them to heal you—“

“Yeah I know that’s not—that’s not the point. I’m just saying, I know I’m dying.” Dean scrubbed a hand down his face. “I’m sick of the self-sacrificing bullshit that’s done for me to live, okay? It ends here. And you gotta promise me that if it comes to me dying—that you make Sam let it happen. Don’t let him do anything stupid.”

“Dean—”

“Promise me, Cas.” 

There was a lengthy silence before Cas said, “If that’s what you want, then… I respect it. I promise I won’t let Sam go to any great lengths to save you.”

It seemed to take the weight off Dean’s shoulders; he slumped back into his seat. “Good, that’s… good.” 

There was a bitter silence; Sam could barely breathe from a pressure he felt in his chest. 

“You know I can’t just…” Cas cleared his throat, tried again. “You know I can’t just give up, Dean.” 

Sam already felt bad for eavesdropping, but he felt as if he was committing a different kind of intrusion when Dean reached out a hand from under the blanket, laying it on Cas’ wrist. 

“I know that, Cas,” Dean said softly. “I get it. But you have to do this for me, okay? Let me go. If it comes to that. It’s what I want, okay?” 

“Okay.” Cas managed a weak smile and laid his hand on top of Dean’s. They stared at the tabletop, expressions twin in their desolation.

The tension broke with a quick clearing of Dean’s throat as he leaned back in his chair. “So tell me about Heaven. What’s up their butts this time?” 

Cas laughed, a weary and breathy thing. “Dean...” 

Sam took the sign to continue his walk down the hallway, trailing their conversation behind. 

Lead had settled in his gut.

Later, after Cas had left, he found Dean in the kitchen. His older brother was hunched over a bowl of Lucky Charms, staring half-lidded at the back of the cereal box. 

Sam slowly sank into the chair across from Dean and stared. Dean stared back, questioningly, spoon poised in the air.

“What?” he asked, slowly.

Sam folded his hands on top of the table. “Are these trials going to kill you?” His tone brooked no room for bullshit.

Dean blinked. Set the spoon gently onto the table. Ran a hand over his mouth, then sighed. “Yeah, Sammy. I think they are.” 

Sam nodded. The confirmation somehow didn’t surprise him. 

So he remained sitting, unmoving, as Dean picked up the spoon again, not meeting his eyes, and continued to eat his cereal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as always, thank you so much for reading, and thank you for any feedback you may have!!  
> this was a busy week so i didn't get time before to answer your guys' comments from the last chapter, so i'm off to do that now! :) 
> 
> also, everyone go look at the beginning of the fic at the banner that @malevolent-dean made for this story!! it's absolutely gorgeous. go give her lots of love.
> 
> <3 hope everyone has a wonderful week


	20. Chapter 20, Part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “A man is rich in proportion to the number of things which he can afford to let alone.” 
> 
> -Henry David Thoreau, Walden

Dean runs a hand over his face; sighs. “God damn it.”

“It’s Bob, right?” Cas asks. He feels the anxiety growing and making a home in his gut.

“Yeah.” 

“Then we should call May,” 

“Yeah, we should.” Dean turns away and closes his eyes. “Fuck.”

Where Dean can turn away, Cas can only stare. Bob’s body is twisted at an uncomfortable, impossible angle over the trash cans. His body is covered in the same unidentifiable dark liquid that burned Cas’ neck. 

Whatever the monster is, it’s powerful.  Whatever it is took him and Dean down like they were dolls. And whatever it is, somehow it drew Bob to this alleyway like it did with the rest of its victims and struck him down like he was nothing. Like it didn’t matter that he was an experienced hunter.

Dean clutches Cas’ arm, jolting him from his contemplations. “Your burns. Let me see them.” 

Cas shrugs out of Dean’s grip. “I’m fine.” 

“No, you’re not fucking ‘fine’. Those look like second degree burns.”

“There’s more to worry about than my injuries. We need to call May, the police, and then we need to hunt the monster down, and Bob’s—“ Cas stops and runs a shaking hand over his mouth, exhaling a burst of air. “Bob’s body needs to be…” 

“Cas. Hey.” Dean lays a gentle hand on Cas’ back, turning him away from where Bob lies, running it soothingly up and down Cas’ back. It sends pleasant shivers dancing across Cas’ spine. “It’ll all get taken care of, okay? Monster’s long gone. Can’t do much about that now. But we do need to regroup. Have a plan; get our asses some medical attention. We’re no good to anyone if we’re not at 100%, right?”

Cas nods and stares at flecks of mud on Dean’s shoes. He focuses on breathing through his nose, like Sam taught him. 

The hand on Cas’ back continues to rub circles between his shoulder blades as Dean continues, “So, first thing we do, call May. Bob’s her husband, however fake, so she’ll have to deal with the police. Then I’m going to look at those burns, you’re going to pop my arm back into its socket, and we’ll regroup.” 

Cas nods again. He feels the hand leave him to dig Dean’s cell phone out of his pocket. Cas clenches and unclenches his fist against his jacket as he hears Dean connect with May and tell her to come to the alley. 

They stand in respectful silence until she appears, sharply gasping when she approaches Bob’s body. 

“Jesus Christ,” she whispers. “Jesus  _ fucking  _ Christ.” 

“May,” Dean says, “what the hell happened? Where did you go?”

May looks between them, hand over her mouth. Her eyes pool with tears. “Faith—she said she had to go to the bathroom. I wanted to go with her, keep an eye on her. But we went through the line at the concession stand and there were so many people and she just… slipped away. I was looking for Bob when you called me. I—“ She looks down at his body again and whimpers. “Oh my  _ god _ .”

“You need to call the police,” Dean says, firmly. “You need to tell them you were looking for Bob, and heard strange noises, and found him here. I think it’s best that Cas and I don’t get swept up in being interrogated and stay free to look for the monster, so you’re not going to mention us. Okay?”

May nods, shakily agrees, “I...I won’t. I can do all that.” 

“Good. When the police are done questioning you, come back to our house. Ask for a police escort. Just say you don’t want to be alone tonight and want to stay with us, your friends.” 

“Okay.” She takes a shuddering breath, closing her eyes. “Okay. I’ll do that.” 

“Great.” Dean brushes a hand against Cas, jolting him from his mental stupor. “Come on. Let’s go.” 

They’re turning on their heels when a voice freezes them. 

“Oh my god, is that Bob?” 

Cas sees Jerry and Jari behind them, staring in horror at the scene down the alleyway. The soccer game must have ended. 

Dean sighs, minutely, before straightening and nodding. “Yeah, it is. There’s been a crime so call the police, will ya?” 

“Oh, shit,” Jari gasps, hands flying to her mouth. Jerry maintains his composure enough to fumble his cell phone from his pocket and shakily press the buttons.

“Looks like we’re going nowhere,” Dean mutters. 

When the police arrive, flooding the street with flashing lights and police cars, it attracts a crowd. Dean raises the collar of Cas’ leather jacket, to cover the burns. 

Cas feels brief irritation interrupt his grief when Dean won’t let him pop his dislocated shoulder back into its socket. Apparently it would draw too much attention. Cas fails to see how Dean’s arm hanging loosely, uselessly, at his side is any less of a suspicion.

All of them are detained to be questioned, individually, one-by-one, outside of the alleyway. A group of investigators swarm Bob’s body, taking evidence and recording details from the crime scene. Despite this, and the clamoring crowd of neighborhood residents that have formed around the street, Cas finds his attention trailing toward Dean as he’s being questioned.

“Sir, can you answer me, please?”

Cas blinks, focusing on the cop in front of him. “Sorry. What did you say?”

“I asked what were you and your husband were doing before you found Mr. Vance’s body?” 

“We…” Cas licks his lips. Closes his eyes to focus. He and Dean didn’t have time to match their stories, so he endeavors to keep his alibi as sparse and simple as possible. “Dean and I were leaving the soccer game. We noticed something odd in the alleyway, came to see what it was. That’s when we found the body.” 

“You mean Mr. Vance?” 

“Yes.” 

“And can anyone verify your story?” the policeman asks, not looking up from his notepad. 

“Uh.” Cas’ eyes flicker to Dean, who is gesticulating toward Bob’s body and seems to be raising his voice. “No. We called May when we found Bob, but she didn’t see us before then.” 

“I see.” The policeman tilts his head back to call over to his partner questioning Dean, “Hey, Phil. Bring him over here.” 

The other policeman—Phil, Cas assumes—nods, pushing Dean forward to where Cas stands. Both Phil and no-name-cop eye them. 

“So what I’m understanding from Dean’s statement here is that both of you just happened to stumble on Mr. Vance’s body, because you happened to see something suspicious down this alleyway?” Phil asks.

“Yup, that’s what we’re saying,” Dean says. He adjusts his arm and winces. It doesn’t escape Cas’ notice.

“With no witnesses seeing you leave the soccer game,” not-Phil adds.

“Yes,” Cas replies.

“I see.” There’s a beat when he looks between them. He reaches behind his waist, taking out a pair of cuffs. “Okay, well, since you guys are both the ones who found the body, and our only eyewitnesses, it’s only logical to take you two to the station for questioning. You have the right to—”

“No, hey, no way!” Dean protests, taking a step back, his good hand clutching Cas’ arm. “We didn’t do anything, okay? We just found his body, that’s all.” 

“We don’t even have weapons to commit this crime,” Cas lies, knowing full well Dean’s gun is still in the waistband of his jeans, and knowing full well that they’d be searched and booked at the police station.

“You both could be perfectly innocent, like I said,” Phil says. “But as it stands, with both of you not having anyone to corroborate your story, and the fact that you were the first ones to see the victim, it makes the most sense that we just rule you two out.” 

“Well then just take me,” Dean says. “Cas definitely didn’t have anything to do with this, and I’ll give a statement at the station or whatever, but just let him go home, okay?” 

“We need to bring both of you in,” Phil says firmly. “Now I don’t want to make this difficult and cause a scene, but I will if I have to.”

“You’re just screwing around with the wrong guys while the real killer is loose!” Dean protests. 

Phil makes a twirling motion with his finger, a signal for them to turn around. “Show us your hands, please.” 

Dean growls, “This is bullshit,” but turns around all the same.

Cas momentarily shuts his eyes against a dropping feeling in his stomach before mirroring Dean and letting Phil snap cuffs around his wrists. He can hear Dean grunt with pain next to him when the other officer puts his wrists together behind his back.

“You guys are making a huge fucking mistake,” Dean snaps as the officers lead them to the car. “Real good at your jobs, guys, huge applause—”

“Dean,” Cas growls. “You’re making this worse.” 

“Husband’s right, buddy,” Phil says. He pushes Dean up against the car, putting a hand on top of Dean’s head, ready to push him into the open door. “And innocent men don’t usually act like dicks when they’re being arrested.”

“Oh, really?” Dean sneers. “You arrest innocent guys often for things they didn’t do then, huh?”

“Dean,” Cas sighs as he’s put into the car by the other officer. He can see a very bleak future where Dean’s temper will end them up in jail for months.

Cas hears Phil snap, “Get in there.” He has his hand on top of Dean’s head, pushing him into the car, when a familiar voice cuts through.

“Officers, hang on. I can verify their story.” Cas can see between Dean and the officer that Faith is running up to them, auburn hair wild with the movement, eyes wide. “You definitely have the wrong guys. You’re making a mistake.” 

“You saw these two leave the game?” Phil asks, coming around the car.

Faith nods. “Yes. I saw them leave, and I also saw them go to the alleway. This was just minutes before May said she called them; it’s in her phone log and everything, like you guys were saying a couple of minutes ago. There’s no way that they could have killed Bob in that amount of time, right?”

Phil narrows his eyes. He grabs Dean’s arm and leads him away from the car, gesturing with a nod of his head for Faith to follow. “Keep him out of the car for now,” he calls to his partner over his shoulder.

Officer not-Phil opens the door and pulls Cas out, guiding him to lean his back against the car. Cas tries to to his head to see Dean, Faith, and Phil huddled by the entrance of the alleway. They’re too far away to be in earshot. 

“Can I go over there too?” Cas asks. 

“Not until I get word that it’s okay,” the officer replies.

“But I want to be with my husband.”

“Don’t we all,” the officer sighs. At Cas’ confused head tilt, he shoots Cas a crooked smile. “Got my own waiting at home. He’s making paella.” 

“I’m so happy for you,” says Cas in a dead tone that indicates anything but. The officer shrugs and looks toward his partner, squinting into the sun. 

Cas chews at his lip and glares at the pebbles of concrete under his feet. He tries his best not to let the underlying panic swarm up and impede him; he needs to have his head on straight. 

“Okay, we can release him,” Phil announces as he walks back to the car. He dangles the cuff’s keys in front of Cas. “Already released your husband back there. Faith’s story corroborates yours, but we’re taking her down to the station to get an official statement.” Phil turns Cas around, unclicking the cuffs. “As for you and your husband, we’re not going to take you in, but we  _ are  _ going to place a patrol car in front of the house. Just in case. And we’ll likely be calling you both in for questioning tomorrow.”

Cas rubs his sore wrists. “Sure.” 

Faith walks to his side, a worried touch on his shoulder. “Are you okay, Castiel?” 

“Oh. Yeah, I’m fine.” He manages a smile. “Thank you for speaking up.”

“It’s no problem,” she says, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “No use for you guys to go to jail for something you obviously didn’t do.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” Cas says. He can’t resist shooting a glare at Phil, who remains nonchalant and leaning against the driver’s door of the police vehicle.

Faith pats his shoulder. “I’ll be around to check on you guys, okay? I heard that May will be staying with you tonight after they take her down to the station.” At Cas’ nod, she flashes another smile before sliding into the car, shutting the door behind her. 

Cas watches the police car as it maneuvers itself around the crowd of people and down the street. He strides over to Dean and May, who stand with their heads bent in a hushed conversation. 

Dean looks up at Cas’ approach, expression melting to relief. “They let you go too,” he says.

“It seems Faith’s story convinced them,” Cas says. “Although I don’t remember seeing her at any point leaving the game.”

Eyes flickering to May, Dean turns Cas so their backs face her. “We  _ did  _ see her,” he says in a low, urgent whisper.

“Wait. Where?”

“Faith is the monster, Cas.”

Cas’ face falls. “What?”

“She all but confirmed it when she ‘verified’ our story to that officer taking her statement. She said she saw us under the bleachers.”

“Okay,” Cas says slowly, the freezing in his veins thawing. “But she could have seen us before that thing attacked us.”

“No,” Dean says vehemently. “No, she all but admitted it. It was subtextual but she admitted it. She saw us under the bleachers? How the hell would she have not seen that huge thing attacking us, too, and be freaked out to hell about it?” 

“Are you sure you were interpreting it right?” Cas asks. “You’ve been suspicious of her from the start, and this is a lot to assume without proof.”

“Cas.” Dean grabs his arm with his non-dislocated hand, shaking it imploringly. “Cas, you gotta trust me, man. The things she said—it was way too suspicious to be innocent.”

Taking a breath, Cas asks, “Okay. Fine. What else did she say? To convince you?”

“When the guy taking her statement turned away to talk to another cop, she turned to me and asked, point blank, if my shoulder dislocated when she threw me down. And then she threatened you, Cas. She said she’d ‘see you later’ under more ‘dire circumstances’ and I swear to your dad, Cas, I was about to pop her a new one if I didn’t have the cuffs on. And the bitch just  _ smiled  _ through the whole thing.”

“Okay, Dean.” He puts a hand on Dean’s shoulder; Cas’ thumb brushing against Dean’s warm neck can feel his rapid pulse. “Just… try to calm down.” Cas turns to May. “You said Faith disappeared, right? Before Bob died?” 

May nods, slowly. Tear tracks have dried into her pale cheeks. “Yeah, she… she disappeared about ten minutes before you guys called.” 

Dean gesticulates a hand. “See? It fits.”

“How long will she be questioned?” Cas asks. “Did the officer say?”

“The officer said it could take a few hours,” Dean says. “We got some time.” 

“I think we should take that time to truly figure out if she’s the monster. Gather the facts.” 

Sighing explosively, Dean runs a hand over his face. “Fine. May, meet us back at the house when you’re done being questioned, okay?” When May doesn’t reply, Dean snaps a pair of fingers in her face. “Hey. May, stay with us. It’s not over yet. You’re probably going to need to give an official statement. But come back to our house when it’s done, got it?” 

May blinks at Dean. “Yeah. Okay.” 

“Okay.” Dean nods at Cas, grabbing his arm. “Let’s go, before they get anymore bright ideas to question us.” 

Cas lets himself be lead by Dean down the alley, and quickly walks behind him toward their street. He can hear Dean cursing under his breath. Dean’s arm hangs at an awkward angle.

“I can pop that back—” Cas begins.

“At the house, Cas,” Dean growls. He flashes a quick smile at two very confused neighbors walking past. 

“They said they’re going to send a patrol car to the house,” Cas says, quietly. “Probably to make sure we don’t run.” 

“Well that’s just awesome,” Dean grumbles. 

They reach their house with no incident. Dean firmly closes and locks the door and insists that they check the rooms for any possible monster lurking under their beds (“Faith could have a partner, Cas, you never know”). 

Finally, Dean turns to Cas with a nod. “Okay. You can pop it back in. I’m sick of this arm being useless.” He leans down on the back of the couch with his good arm, giving Cas a better angle.

Cas grimaces. Takes Dean’s shoulder by one hand, the other placed on his back. Cas has learned how to fix dislocated shoulders during his time away from the bunker. A hunter he used to run with got them consistently—according to him, once your shoulder dislocates, it increases the likelihood it’ll happen again. Cas lost count of how many times he had to do it. 

“Just do it, Cas,” Dean grunts, likely sensing Cas’ hesitation. “Not getting any better down here.” 

Cas remembers that the best way to do it is for the muscles around the joint to not be in anticipation. “I’ll count to three,” he tells Dean. He feels Dean relax a fraction. It’s Cas’ cue to quickly, expertly, push his hands and snap the joint back into place. 

Dean, to his credit, only lets out a small whimper before going silent, breathing heavily through his nose. 

Cas doesn’t remember feeling this horrible about popping the other hunter’s shoulder back into place. With Dean, he does. He gets a bag of peas from the freezer, the same he put on Dean’s head the other night, and lays them gently onto Dean’s shoulder.

“Thanks,” Dean pants. He puts a hand on Cas’, holding the bag of peas closer to him. “Fucking thing gets popped out all the time.”

“That makes sense. I’ve learned that once you dislocate the joint, it’s more prone to further dislocations.”

“Huh. Didn’t know it was the ‘facts with Cas’ part of the evening.”

Cas narrows his eyes. “What I’m trying to say is, be more careful.” 

Dean snorts, “Speak for yourself.” He straightens and flicks a finger at Cas’ burns in example. “Know anything about burn care, Dr. Cas?” 

Cas blinks. “Simply because I know about shoulder dislocations doesn’t make me a trained professional.” 

“Just—Cas. Do you know how to treat burns?”

“No.” He runs a finger over the stodgy black liquid thoughtfully. “But my instinct is to first remove this liquid from my skin. It feels like it’s constantly burning my skin the longer it’s on there.” 

“Jesus, Cas. Why didn’t you say anything?” 

“I didn’t think it was necessary at the time. We had other issues to solve.” He nods a head toward the staircase. “My first aid kit might have ointment to treat the burns. It’s in my backpack.” 

Dean frowns, looking anything but pleased at the news. He shakes his head and sighs before going up the stairs, two at a time, muttering his grievances at Cas’ cavalier attitude toward his own health. 

Cas follows him. He stands in the doorway, watching Dean rifle around his bag. 

“This it?” Dean asks, holding a small, white tube in the air. 

“I believe so.”

“Well get over here, so I can get that shit off you.” 

Cas’ skin prickles at Dean’s tone. He’s perfectly capable of doing it himself. To emphasize this, he walks straight past Dean and into the master bathroom attached to the room. He snatches the towel he used that morning to shower off the hook and holds it under the faucet. He uses the mirror to carefully wipe the black goo off his neck, only flinching slightly when the rough fabric of the towel grazes over his burns. 

Dean stands in the doorway, arms crossed and expression neutral. “I think I’m gonna call Sam.” 

“For what purpose?” Cas asks. He winces when the towel hits a particularly sensitive burn. 

“See how his case is going. Update him on ours.” Dean sighs, shoulders relaxing minutely. “I hate to say it, but I think this is going beyond our ability to handle it alone.” 

Cas nods. Doesn’t meet his own eyes in the mirror. “I think you’re right.” He continues to fleck off the dried-up ooze off his skin as Dean punches in Sam’s number. Dean puts the flip phone on the bathroom counter, directing the call to speakerphone. 

“Hey, Dean,” Sam says cheerfully down the line. “You’ll never guess what I’m doing.” 

Cas sees how Dean’s posture gets less defensive, his expression less tense at the sound of his little brother’s voice. “If I can never guess it, then tell me, dumbass.” 

“I’m burning the monster’s body from this case right now,” Sam proudly proclaims. “Turns out it  _ was  _ a Vetala. Jody and I got it with a silver knife and everything. How’s your guys’ hunt?”

“Pretty shitty, if I’m being honest.” Dean gusts a sigh. “It’s definitely not a Vetala.” 

“Oh. What is it, then?”

“Dunno. A fucked-up djinn? We have no idea.” 

“It attacked us,” Cas loudly adds. He leans too close to the receiver, apparently, because Dean pushes him back. “It sprayed a dark liquid that can burn one’s skin, and apparently has 8 limbs.”

“And can psychically attack people,” Dean adds.

“Huh. That’s interesting.”

“Yeah,  _ real  _ interesting,” Dean adds with a dramatic eye roll. “Listen, man, I think you should get down here. Help us out. We need more manpower with this thing.”

“Well, do you know who it is?” 

“Yeah, but it doesn’t do us shit,” Dean says. “This thing is powerful. And we have no idea what it is.” 

“Well, I can do some research on the way.” The worry is evident in Sam’s voice; Cas knows, as well as Sam does, that Dean asking for help means that the situation truly is dire. “Things are squared away here, so I’ll just tell Jody. I can start driving in an hour.”

“Sounds good.” Dean runs a hand through his hair. “Just let me know when you cross the state border.”

“Will do,” Sam says. “And guys? Be careful, okay?” 

“Yeah, yeah, you big worrywart,” Dean scoffs.

“You tell me the monster has  _ eight limbs  _ and you expect me not to—”

Dean snaps the phone shut on Sam’s exclamation. He grins at Cas. “I love doing that.”

“That was rude, Dean.”

Dean scoffs. “Sasquatch will get over it.” He gestures to Cas’ neck. “You gonna let me help you now?”

A surge of irritation swells. “I told you that I can do it myself,” Cas snaps. There’s a clench in his chest that’s compressing his lungs and he’s not sure how to fight against it. It’s the kind of feeling he only really gets around Dean.

“Cas.” Dean takes a step toward him, a hand on the sinktop, centimeters away from Cas’ own. “Let me help you buddy, okay? I want to take care of you.”

Dean’s being gentle for Cas’ benefit. Cas knows this. Nonetheless, Cas turns. Tilts his head to the right, bearing his burned neck in submission. 

“There, is that so hard?” Dean asks. He grins teasingly at Cas glaring down him through half-lidded eyes. 

“We don’t have time for this,” Cas says, feeling Dean’s gentle fingers deftly spreading the ointment on his neck.

“There’s always time to patch you up, Cas.” Dean pointedly tears off a piece of gauze and presses it against the burn taking up the biggest surface area of Cas’ skin, just under his left ear.

Cas stares at the grey tile of the bathroom floor. There’s an odd feeling of deja-vu permeating the room; Cas recalls sitting in the bathroom at the bunker, Dean patching him up, after Cas tried to (unsuccessfully) take out a vampire’s nest.

He feels no less stupid and useless now than he did then.

“I’ve never seen anything like that monster before,” Cas confesses, head still down.

Dean’s shoulders sag. His fingers dance across Cas’ skin. “Me neither. I have no fucking clue. I thought for sure it was the same thing Sam was hunting in Sioux Falls.” He presses a piece of gauze to Cas’ neck. “At least we know it’s Faith.”

“Maybe Faith,” Cas says. He flinches when Dean ties a bandage across Cas’ neck to keep the gauze in place.

Dean puts a hand against Cas’ neck, the right side, where the skin isn’t burned. “Too tight?”

Cas shakes his head. 

“Good.” Dean keeps his gaze; sighs. “Cas, we’re gonna figure it out, okay? We figured out who it is, we just gotta figure out  _ what _ .” 

“Dean.” Cas takes a breath. “If it is Faith, and since she’s taken an interest in me from the beginning, I think—”

“No, Cas. You’re not gonna be bait.” 

Cas’ jaw shuts with a click. “At some point I need to prove my use, Dean.” 

“You do, Cas, okay? You’re always useful.” 

“And I don’t see the insistence on treating me like I can’t take care of myself. Like I don’t know danger. I was a soldier in Heaven, I know strategy. And a strategical maneuvor is trapping her with something she clearly wants—me.” 

“Cas, whoa, slow down.” Dean takes Cas by his shoulders. “Did it ever occur to you that maybe I’m worried about you just because you’re my friend? And I care about you?”

“It didn’t,” Cas mutters. He lowers his eyes; feels Dean’s fingers skim his neck.

“Well, it should.” Dean absentmindedly pushes a strand of hair from Cas’ face; picks out a piece of leaf that attached itself to Cas’ hair during the fight. “Because I do, all right? Care about you.”

Cas is suddenly, starkly, aware of how close he and Dean are standing. There’s mere centimeters in the space between them. It would take a simple sway forward for Cas’ face to meet Dean’s.

But there’s no one around to witness them; no extrinsic reason for Cas to touch Dean, to kiss Dean, to hold Dean. No excuse for Cas to take what he wants, be as close to Dean as he wishes to be under the guise of their facade. 

No reason, except for his own, to close the space between them and claim Dean’s lips with his own. 

Cas watches the trail of Dean’s tongue as he licks his lips nervously. Not for the first time since his fall, he realizes he’s utterly lost. 

He almost imagines Dean swaying toward him, too.

The sound of the doorbell electrifies the air around them. They both spring back, hands firmly at their sides where they were once reaching toward each other. 

“That’s probably May,” Dean mutters as he turns on his heel. With a nervous backward glance, after a momentary pause, he resumes his journey away from the room, away from Cas.

Cas puts a hand on his forehead and breathes sharply through his nose. “God damn it,” he mutters. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> some quick announcements: 
> 
> 1\. @malevolent-dean made the most beautiful edit for this fic. [please go check it out!](https://wanderingcas.tumblr.com/post/183266290189/malevolent-dean-the-cost-of-a-thing-by-the)
> 
> 2\. if you want a laugh, @idjit and I made some memes for this fic. [the fun is here](https://wanderingcas.tumblr.com/post/183208398624/so-idjit-and-i-made-the-cost-of-a-thing-memes)
> 
> also, just as a general note - this chapter fought me, guys. sorry if it's a letdown in any way. :/
> 
> (did you catch the easter egg I added in this chapter?) 
> 
> <3 thank you all for sticking with this story. Can't believe there's only a handful of chapters left.


	21. Chapter 20, Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Heaven is under our feet as well as over our heads.” 
> 
> -Walden, Henry David Thoreau

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey everyone, quick note - there is an.... ahem, "mature" scene of sorts in this chapter. It happens sometime after the time break, and lasts till the end of the chapter.  
> (there is some plot stuff in that scene, but I will definitely be calling back to it in future chapters, in case you didn't want to read it)
> 
> please message me if you have any questions!<3

Dean is already opening the door when Cas makes it downstairs. May stands in the doorway, shivering and biting her index fingernail. She shuffles in and gives a jerky nod in their direction.

“What did you tell the cops?” Dean asks. 

“Just that.” She closes her eyes and takes a breath. “That I didn’t know anything. That I just found him like that.” 

“Did you see anything else while you were there? Did they comment on the scene at all?” 

May stares at him. Cas looks between Dean’s determined, unyielding expression and her minutely shaking body. He knows that they won’t get much out of her if she’s this upset. He puts a hand on her back and leads her to the dining room table, guiding her into a chair. 

“I’ll make tea, okay?” he asks her, shooting an expectant look to Dean over her head. 

Dean rolls his eyes, briefly, before changing tactics. Cas can hear it in Dean’s voice, as his back is to them while he puts the kettle on.

“Listen, May, I know it’s awful that Bob’s dead,” Dean says. There’s an undercurrent of sympathy in his voice this time. “But we need to find this son of a bitch monster, okay? You need to tell us _ everything  _ you and Bob had on the case. Any leads, any details, anything.” 

Cas turns to them, hip propped against the counter, arms crossed over his chest. He waits patiently for May, watches her fold her hands together as she takes a breath. 

“We didn’t have anything,” she admits quietly.

“What does that mean?” Cas demands, over Dean’s “What the fuck are you talking about?”

May’s eyes skitter between them. “Bob and I aren’t hunters,” she admits, voice barely a whisper. 

Dean leans forward, expression brooking no room for bullshit, his fist clenched against the table’s edge. “You better explain pretty quick here May, because you’re starting to seem like the culprit rather than the victim here,” he says in a low voice.

“We weren’t lying about anything else,” May protests quickly. “We have been living here for 6 months. And we  _ did  _ know there was a monster. And we did have a couple leads, it’s just… we didn’t know what we were doing beyond that.” She licks her lips and shudders out a sigh. “Bob was married to my sister. She… she died, 7 months ago. By the same monster.”

Cas exchanges a look with Dean. 

“I saw the monster, too, after it killed her. I have no idea how I lived. But I saw it, like you both did. I can tell you encountered it because of that black… whatever it is,” she says, gesturing to the burns on Cas’ neck. “I got those, too. All over my arms, when it attacked me. But then Bob burst in, and it just… left.” She puts her face in her hands. “Fuck.” 

“May.” Dean’s hard tone brings her eyes back to his. “You need to give us more than that. Did anything else happen when it attacked you? How did you and Bob track it?” 

On a trembling sigh, she answers, “We tracked it through police blotters. We looked for any other death within a 50-mile radius that sounded like Helen’s—my sister, I mean.” She frowns down at her hands. “When you said it psychically attacked, you, Dean, that’s when… that’s when Bob and I really trusted that you weren’t the monster. Because it did the same to me, too.” 

Cas quickly pushes away the memory of Dean with his head clutched between his hands and his voice brokenly telling Cas how much it hurts. “How do you mean?” he asks.

She looks at him. “The monster grabbed me—by the arms. And then it started to make me relive every awful thing that ever happened to me. It was trivial stuff, like the pain of me falling off my bike when I was five—but also deep, emotional feelings like when my boyfriend died in a motorcycle accident. Just, a whole range of things.” 

Cas nods. He remembers Dean’s face when he was reliving Sam’s death again, his friend from childhood dying; Cas leaving him. 

He briefly closes his eyes, futilely attempting to get ahold of himself.

“And with the monster that close…” May stops, blinking down at her hands. “I can’t explain it. It felt like something was… leaving me. Like it was pulling something from me. But that doesn’t make sense.” 

Dean frowns. He mouths over to Cas,  _ Djinn? _

Cas shrugs, managing to keep his face impassive. The kettle whistles behind him. He turns to shut off the stove. 

“I’m sorry for lying,” May says, her voice breaking. “All of this was Bob’s idea—tracking the monster, trying to figure out what it was… just for Helen’s death. Like it would bring her back somehow. I didn’t want this. And now he’s—” She dissolves into sobs. She lays her head down, crying into her crossed arms.

Cas grabs a mug from the cupboard, deciding to give her decaf. He joins Dean and May at the table, sliding the tea across the tabletop to her. 

“May, listen.” Dean puts a hand on her shoulder. “I’m not going to say what you and Bob did wasn’t… really stupid, if I’m being blunt. And this thing is so powerful that not even experienced hunters like Cas and I know what the hell it is. But one thing’s for sure—you gotta keep yourself safe and out of here, okay? The monster is probably targeting you personally since you were the one that got away. You need to put distance between yourself and this place.”

May clutches the tea mug between her hands, vehemently shaking her head. “No, no. That’s just it—I can’t leave. I need to see this through. Especially since I know who the monster is.” 

Cas leans forward. “Who?”

She blinks. “Well isn’t it obvious? It’s Faith.” 

Dean scrubs a hand through his hair and shoots Cas an ‘I told you so’ look. “Yeah, we had our suspicions. But what tipped you off?”

“She left, suddenly, saying she had to go to the bathroom. I tried following her—that’s why we both disappeared.” May fiddles with the tag of the tea-bag hanging over the mug’s edge. “When Bob saw us leaving, he followed us. But Faith somehow shook me around the concession stand, and when you called me—” She takes a breath. “It has to be her. There’s just too many coincidences.”

“I agree,” Dean says. “She also said some pretty suspect things to me after the cops questioned her for her story. We should figure out how to take her out.”

“Okay, wait,” Cas says, placing his hands on the table. “The signs  _ are  _ suspicious, but we don’t know this for sure. We don’t want to take out a civilian based on conjecture.” 

“So we tail her,” Dean says. “We do research on her. We corner that bitch.” 

May nods. “Definitely.”

Cas inwardly rolls his eyes, biting back the accusation that Dean is probably only fixating on Faith because of his intrinsic dislike of her that he’s expressed from the beginning. “Fine. But there’s not much we can do today without being suspicious. There’s police everywhere.”

Dean nods. “If anything, the monster is lying as low as it can.” He turns to May. “Do you want to stay here? For protection?” 

“No offense, but, I think this is the least safe place,” May says, shifting in her chair uncomfortably. “The monster knows that you’re hunters now. You went face-to-face with it, with weapons. If anything, it’s going to attack here.” 

Dean runs a hand over his face. “Fuck. Didn’t think of that.”

“Stay at a motel, then,” Cas says. “Out of city limits. You shouldn’t tell anyone where you’re going, either.” 

“And make the police suspicious that I’m running away after murdering my fake husband? No thanks.”

“Tell them then,” Dean says. “Offer them to put a patrol car on you. Just say you can’t stay in your house tonight because you’re freaked out, the memories haunt you—whatever. Either way, you shouldn’t be in this neighborhood.” 

May takes a sip of tea. Sets it on the table. “That house  _ does  _ haunt me,” she confesses. 

Cas’ face twists in sympathy. “May… we haven’t said it yet, but. We  _ are  _ sorry about Bob.” 

She waves a hand dismissively. “He wasn’t the same after Helen died. I think he was…. In some sick way hoping for this outcome.” She shakily swipes a finger under her eye, catching a tear. “I just want to find the bitch that did this,” she murmurs.

“And we will,” Dean says firmly. He puts a hand on her arm and squeezes it. “We’re going to figure it out.”

“And you don’t have to hunt it anymore,” Cas adds. “Your only job now is to stay safe.” 

“Thank you.” She glances between them. “Just be careful, okay? And… keep me updated.” 

Cas tries for a smile, hopes it’s reassuring. “We will.”

 

* * *

“Fuck,” Dean declares, flopping onto the couch. 

“Fuck,” Cas agrees. He stands at the window, watching May’s taxi tail-lights recede into the distance. 

“This is turning to be out a huge shitshow,” Dean groans, pinching his nose between his fingers. “We don’t know what it is, somehow it laid low for 6 months and didn’t even try to kill Bob and May…“

“Even though it sounds as if it was perfectly capable of it,” Cas adds. He sinks in the couch next to Dean with a sigh. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say that it was having fun with all this.”

Dean blinks at Cas. Slowly wags a finger in the air. “No, but… it does seem like it, doesn’t it?” He rises to his feet. “It didn’t kill us, Cas, even though it really could have. Did you see that thing? Eight fucking limbs.”

“And it killed Bob, but just left his body,” Cas adds. “Why kill him now, and not before?” 

“He probably saw who it was, somehow. And it didn’t want him to reveal anything.”

“But May…” 

“It didn’t kill her, after it killed her sister, even though it had her literally in its clutches. And Bob interrupting didn’t matter. It could have killed him too.” Dean looks up at Cas. “And it didn’t kill me, at May and Bob’s dinner party. Even though it could have.” 

“It’s playing with us.” Cas feels as though he’s been punched in the solar plexus at the realization. “We thought it was killing for food, or for survival. That it just kept getting interrupted. But it’s… simply having a good time.”

Dean scrubs a hand over his face. “Well, fuck.” 

“Fuck,” agrees Cas for the second time that afternoon. They sit in steeped silence.

Dean bounces off the couch and claps his hands. “Well. Sammy’s coming to help, cops are still crawling the streets, Faith’s still at the police station… not much we can do now. Dinner?”

“How can you be hungry right now?” Cas asks incredulously. “This monster is out there and powerful and killing people.”

“Cas. Sometimes hunting is a waiting game, okay? And the monster isn’t going to show itself with cops around, like May said. It seems like it wants to blend into the suburban life to keep playing its psychotic game of cat and mouse, okay?”

Cas remains seated on the couch, hands in his lap. “Dean,” he says. It’s soft, but it makes Dean stop his journey to the kitchen and turn back toward him.

“Dean, I know you don’t like my idea, but—what makes the most strategic sense to me is that I let Faith take me, if she’s truly the monster we’re chasing.”

“Cas—”

“Let me finish, please. Then you and Sam can follow me, see where she takes her victims. Find her weak points.”

Dean folds his arms across his chest. “I’m only gonna say this one more time, okay? Hell.  _ No _ .” 

Rising to his feet, Cas shoots back, “You and Sam put yourselves in the line of fire, constantly. And you didn’t mind me doing so when I was an angel.”

“Because you had grace to make sure you weren’t ganked in half a minute,” Dean sputters. “I can’t believe you’re being this stupid, Cas.”

“I’m not being  _ stupid _ . The monster has us on our radar. It’ll come either way. I’m merely trying to get ahead of it.”

Dean scoffs; lets his arms hang at his sides. He looks at anything in the room but Cas as he chews his bottom lip. “Y’know, you’re a hypocrite. Has that ever occured to you?”

“How am I a hypocrite?” Cas bites back.

“You get your panties twisted over me treating you like you’re a useless and weak human, right? But here you are, actin’ like I couldn’t take on this monster without putting you in the line of fire.”

“I’m not—”

“You’re acting like I can’t make my own damn decisions, Cas!” Dean yells, pitching his voice higher. “You won’t even respect my decision to die, can you at least fucking respect  _ this _ ?”

Cas feels his blood freeze in his veins. He walks, slowly, until he’s inches away from Dean. “Do you think I made that decision lightly?” he whispers. “Do you think I’m making  _ this  _ one lightly? This is what happens when people care about you, Dean. They feel compelled to keep you alive.”

“Oh, really?” Dean jabs a finger into Cas’ chest. “That’s caring about someone, huh?”

“Yes. It is.”

“Is it also caring to keep me alive and lose everything, Cas? I’m all for living and breathing but not at the cost of your  _ life _ . Or our fucking friendship that’s basically irreparable at this point.” 

“Are you saying that’s my fault?”

“Well, buddy, you’re the one who left the damn bunker, not me.”

Cas pinches the bridge of his nose. He can feel the familiar beat of shame and regret marching up his spine. “You’re deciding to talk about the past, now? About my leaving,  _ now _ ?”

“Of course I don’t want to talk about it,” Dean snaps. “But you’re about to do something else colossally stupid, so damn right we’re discussing it. Even if it’s just so you don’t make the same mistake twice.” 

Something in Cas splinters. He can feel it in his chest, tightly wound for so long, creating a reverberating crack as it breaks. In a movement, he’s crowding Dean against the door, Dean’s back against it, leaning into his space with his hands on either side of Dean’s head.

“Don’t you  _ dare  _ say that saving your life was a mistake,” he demands to Dean’s wide eyes. “Saving you is not stupid. Wanting to take care of you is  _ not  _ stupid. I know you’ve operated under this insane notion that you’re not worth anything, that your life can be thrown away at a moment’s notice for Sam, for the world, for a stranger. But  _ I  _ want to do the same for you, and you need to get it through your thick skull that  _ I  _ think you’re worth saving. That you  _ deserve  _ to be saved. You talk about cost? Dean, there’s no cost too high if it means keeping you alive.” 

Dean just stares at him in shock; the walls are breaking down behind his eyes. He clutches the front of Cas’ shirt, like he’s lost his footing, and needs balance. “You said there was,” he chokes out, voice rough and furious. “Before you left. I… I got a fucking note in my back pocket to prove it.”

“There’s no excuse for what I said.” The memory of his words batter against him, the guilt turning his stomach. “All I can offer in explanation is that I was adjusting to new, human emotions, while being highly irresponsible with them. I will  _ never  _ forgive myself for what I said.”

Dean’s eyes flicker down to their shoes. “Not like you were wrong,” he grunts out. “You were just saying the truth. You never should have given that up for me. Ain’t worth sacrificing for.” 

“ _ Dean _ .” Cas takes Dean’s face between his hands, waits until Dean meets his eyes again. “Dean, that’s not true.” His gaze follows the track that Dean’s tongue makes across his bottom lip as he licks it nervously. Something’s lodged in his throat when he continues, “I want to show you that I don’t think that. I want to prove to you how much you’re worth.”

“Then prove it,” Dean says, voice riding on a whisper and tinged with a challenge. Because that’s all Dean ever does to Cas, challenge him, and push him to the point of breaking. “Prove it, Cas. Prove that I’m not—”

Within the fraction of a heartbeat, acting on instinct alone, Cas tilts forward and presses his lips against Dean’s, swallowing the words whole.

With a surprised grunt, Dean presses his hands into Cas’ shoulders; Cas leans backward. 

“Fuck,” he breathes out. He watches Dean breathe heavily, stare at the floor. “I’m so sorry, Dean. I didn’t mean—”

“Cas,” Dean says, something broken and desperate tied up in his name, and Dean’s kissing him again, this time open-mouthed and on the tail-end of a moan.

Cas responds with equal desperation. He clutches Dean’s jaw gently between his palms, strokes his thumbs against Dean’s flushed cheeks, chases the warmth of Dean’s mouth. He expected, if he ever got to kiss Dean properly, that it would feel incredible.

He didn’t expect it to feel like coming home.

Leaving Dean’s lips for an empty moment (but not before dragging his teeth across Dean’s bottom lip and shuddering at the moan it elicits), Cas buries his face into Dean’s neck, kissing and sucking. It’s softer than he imagined—smells like cheap aftershave and the Impala’s leather interior, which he did imagine.

“Cas, please,” Dean gasps above him, but doesn’t say what he’s begging for. Cas exhales when Dean’s hands slip under Cas’ t-shirt, shudders when Dean drags his fingers across his skin. Dean pulls at the hem; Cas begrudgingly detaches from Dean to allow for his shirt to be pulled over his head. He does the same to Dean’s flannel. A few buttons rip off and clatter to the floor.

Dean presses their chests together, letting out a moan that Cas thinks should be downright illegal.

They’re kissing again, lost in a haze of hands and skin and fingers threading through each other’s hair until Dean rasps, “Bedroom.”

Somehow defying physics and getting up the stairs without unlatching, Dean falls back onto the bed, neck red and marked, freckled chest flushed. Cas has seen the world’s wonders across a millennia, and in this moment, he decides that this is the most beautiful thing he’s seen.

He presses against Dean, memorizes the small gasps that punch from Dean’s throat when he decorates Dean’s neck with a column of kisses, catalogues the arch of Dean’s back when Cas skims his hands up and down Dean’s side.

“Cas, what are you doing?” asks Dean, breathlessly.

“Showing you how much you’re worth,” Cas says simply as he cards a hand through Dean’s hair.

“Fuck, but— _ Cas _ .” He pulls at Cas’ bare shoulders, nails digging into his skin. “I’m going to explode like a horny teenager on prom night if you keep doing that, man. Get up here.”

Cas obliges, holding himself over Dean’s body and kissing him thoroughly, a hand against the back of Dean’s head to support it. He can feel Dean’s hand press against Cas’ lower back.

“This has to be real, Cas,” Dean breathes against his lips. He pushes a hand through Cas’ hair, gripping tight. “This… it can’t be just a one-time, quick thing, okay? It has to be—”

Cas presses his hand to Dean’s chest. “It’s real, Dean.”

This close, Cas can see the glistening in Dean’s eyes before Dean angrily swipes it away. “You  _ left _ .” 

“I know.” 

“You left,” Dean repeats, a little more broken than before, like it explains anything—which it does, to Cas it’s the most Dean has communicated through words in the past few years.

“I’m so sorry,” Cas says. He kisses Dean, pleading forgiveness between breaths. “I’m so sorry, I am.” 

Dean’s hand snakes between them, unbuttons Cas’ jeans with deft fingers, pushing at the waistband. 

“Need you,” Dean says. “I need all of you, Cas.”

Cas knows, in that suspending and terrifying moment, what Dean needs. And it’s not even a conscious decision—it’s pure want and instinct that has him pulling off the rest of his clothes, that has him pulling off the rest of Dean’s. 

It’s instinct to stare in reverence at Dean’s length, a little thicker than his own, for a moment before swallowing it in one motion, his fingers pressed bruisingly into Dean’s hips as Dean bites out a curse and arches against the bed. 

It’s instinct to climb back up to him, take his slicked length in hand, kiss him deeply as Dean gasps and scrambles for Cas’. “Together,” Dean’s only capable of groaning out. Cas gets the message and takes both of them in hand. His moan interlaces with Dean’s. 

Cas has had sex before. It’s one of the nuisances of being human—necessary sexual release. But he didn’t find a lot of enjoyment in it, man or woman.

Until Dean.

With Dean, he feels like his heart might explode as Dean straddles him, holding Cas’ fist in his, moving up and down with the motion. Cas can only stare at Dean’s half-lidded eyes, his lips parted so slightly, his hips effortlessly riding Cas with the rhythm of their hands. 

Dean takes Cas’ free hand and guides it to his left shoulder—where Cas grabbed him in Hell all those years ago. When he had his wings.

“Sometimes I feel you here,” Dean says. He presses Cas’ hand against the raised skin. It fits perfectly.

“Dean… I don’t—”

“I can’t explain it. I just do.” Dean’s smile is sad, and moisture is gathering in his eyes. “I felt you all the time, Cas, when you were gone. It gutted me.” 

There’s a buzzing, just under Cas’ fingers. A ghost of something latching on.

He stares at Dean. At beautiful, perfect, righteous Dean sitting perched on his hips. He never deserved Cas’ angry words. His burdens. Dean’s been shouldering people’s burdens all his life, without question, even when those people left. And Cas did what he swore he would never do: he left too. Shut the door on him. Gave a very clear message.

The tingling in his fingers against the raised handprint grows stronger. It feels like a call.

He shuts his eyes, pushes the back of his head into the pillow.

_ No _ .

“Cas?” Dean asks, hesitantly, above him. 

Dean shouldn’t sound hesitant. Or sad. Dean should never be any of the negative things that Cas forced him to deal with when he became human. Cas was supposed to protect him, shelter him, from all of that. Cas was supposed to be better.

Opening his eyes, Cas jack-knifes forward, so that he’s sitting up, him and Dean chest-to-chest. He pulls Dean’s legs to wraps around his waist. He takes both their lengths in his fist, slowly pulling up and down at an agonizing pace. Presses his forehead against Dean’s.

“You’re gorgeous,” Cas whispers, “and worth every remittance. Every cost. And deserving of so much more than I could ever give you.” 

He can feel Dean’s breath against his cheeks getting shorter and sharper as Cas increases his speed. 

Cas knows it’s too much to handle.

Dean gasps his name, “Cas,” like a prayer, and then he’s coming over Cas’ hand, head tilted back and eyes wide and all Cas can do is watch in reverence—

He knows that he’s not ready.

Cas follows close behind, his orgasm punching out of him, his fingers practically burning against the dull glow of the handprint on Dean’s arm.

He falls all the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)
> 
> please enjoy this lil scene of Dean and Cas finally seeing eye to eye before we go back to our regularly scheduled angst. 
> 
> and as always I’d love to hear your guys’ thoughts 
> 
> <3


	22. interlude; sept 2013

Sam heard the fight, in the morning on the day that Cas left.

He was in the bunker’s library, monitoring police blotters online for any cases, when he heard the shouting. A rising crescendo of Dean’s voice, followed by staccato bursts from Cas. Since they were in Cas’ room, Sam didn’t hear much of it. But he could take a guess what it was about. 

“—consistently  _ smothering  _ me, like I’m a child—”

“If you didn’t do such damn stupid things—”

“—and you’re acting like I’ll spontaneously combust if you don’t hover over me—”

Sam closed his eyes, massaged his forehead at the familiar headache. He knew it was coming: a final battle between Dean and Cas over the rising tension that had been building since Cas became human. Since the  _ event  _ that caused Cas to be human. 

When he heard Dean (he assumed that it was Dean, since it was a very ‘Dean’ thing to do) throw something to the ground, a crashing sound following soon after, Sam rose from his seat and decided to intervene. 

He was down the hall, almost to Cas' bedroom, when he heard the tail end of it; something that made him stop, socked feet slipping against the concrete of the floor.

“Why do you mope around all day, then, Cas, acting like you regret it? Huh? Why are you acting like you regret doing the thing that made you fucking human in the first place?”

The silence that followed was more assaulting than the yelling that preceded it. Sam stood there, mere feet away from Cas’ open bedroom door, his breathing harsh and loud in the quiet.

“You son of a bitch,” he heard Dean say. “You  _ do  _ regret it.”

“Dean,” Cas said, and Sam can hear the pain and the regret in his voice. “It’s more complicated than—”

“No—I get it. I mean, the way you've been acting, the way you've been avoiding me since this whole... shit went down. Why _wouldn't_ you regret it? So message received, Cas. Do whatever you fucking want. I’m done.”

Sam saw Dean leave the room, saw him go the other direction down the hallway and not even notice Sam’s presence. Sam was accustomed to the sharp lines of Dean’s shoulders, the tight drawstring of his spine, indicating he was upset. He heard the bunker door slam.   

Sam gave it a half an hour before trying to approach Cas. He knocked on Cas’ door, tea in hand. On the off-chance Cas wanted to talk, he wanted to make himself available.

“Hey, Cas? It’s Sam. Can I come in?”

There’s no answer, but the door is unlocked. Tentatively, Sam poked his head through the crack in the door. “Cas?”

He saw Cas turning around quickly, body trying to block the bed behind him. “Sam.”

Sam opened the door more fully; blinked at the poorly hidden duffel bag behind Cas’ back. “You’re packing,” he said.

Cas scrubbed a hand over his face. “I was hoping you would go after Dean.”

Setting the tea mug on the dresser, Sam held out his hands. “So, what, you were just going to slip out while I was out? While Dean was gone? C’mon, man, what were you thinking?”

“I can’t stay, Sam.” 

“Just.” Sam pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. His headache increased. “It’s one fight with Dean, okay? Friends fight. It’ll all blow over.”

“It’s not the fight,” Cas said, turning away to shove another shirt into his blue duffel. “It’s the  _ content  _ of the fight, it’s—being in this bunker.” Cas’ shoulders slumped. “You know I can’t stay.”

“I know that you  _ can _ , if you really wanted to,” Sam said, arms crossed. “But you don’t want to, and that’s the problem.” 

Cas shook his head. He stared at the flannel in his hand. It’s one that Dean gave to Cas when he was newly human and didn’t own any of his own clothes. “I’m sorry.” 

“At least tell Dean, man. I know he won’t be happy about it, but… You can’t just ghost off like this. At least explain—”

“I wrote a note, trying to—to explain.” Cas turned to meet Sam’s eyes. He gestured uselessly to the space between the bed and the bedside table. “I threw it away. It didn’t come out right. None of the things I say come out right.” 

“I don’t think that’s true, Cas.” 

“It is.” He stuffed the flannel into his duffel bag; zipped it harshly. “It’s why I have to leave.” 

Sam tried. He tried to aim one more time, see if he could finally pierce the heart of the matter; to crack through Cas’ impenetrable armor and convince him. “Cas,” he said, “don’t you remember our conversation? On the bridge? That you don’t have to blame yourself for feeling that resentment of losing your grace? Of... why you lost it?”

Cas laughed. A dry chuckle, devoid of humor. “You don't understand, Sam. The resentment is why I have to leave. The regret, the…” He waved a hand at nothing. “The lack of getting better. I need to be away from Dean. Stop… hurting him with how I act. With what I say.”  

Sam sighed. Felt the fight drain out of him. After all his conversations with Cas, all his insights into what Cas was going through; he knew that this was inevitable. That Cas was like a tide, impossible to hold between your hands, impossible to force to stay on the shore. 

“Fine,” Sam said. “But at least keep your burner with you, okay? So we can contact you.” 

“Fine.” 

They stood there, staring at each other for a few long moments. 

“Tell Dean,” Cas began. Stopping, he chewed his lip and shook his head. Tried again. “Tell him…” 

Sam said, “I… I’ll tell him something, Cas. Don’t worry.” 

Nodding, Cas shouldered his duffel bag. Sam couldn’t quite meet Cas’ eyes as he pushed past him through the doorway, footsteps noisy against the stairs, the heavy bunker door shutting in his wake.

Sam stared at the empty space where Cas was for a few minutes. Went to sit at the kitchen table, hands folded, staring at his fingernails, agonizing over his decision. He jumped out of his skin when the front door of the bunker opened a few hours later.

He knew it was his brother, when Dean called for Cas. It made Sam’s heart sink lower.

“Oh, hey, Sammy,” Dean greeted when he breezed through the kitchen door. His arms were laden with grocery bags, overflowing with food. “You seen Cas?”

Sam shook his head, throat dry. “Probably, uh… out.”

“Oh, okay.” Dean turned his back, began to unpack the bags of groceries and put food in designated cabinets and shelves in the fridge. “You probably heard our fight this morning, huh?” 

“Uh… a bit.”

“Yeah, well, it was shitty. And he said some things, and I said some things—but I came to a conclusion, okay?”

Sam shifted in his chair, deeply uncomfortable. “Dean…”

“No, Sammy, hear me out. This stuff with Cas is fucked up, and sure it’s not perfect and Cas is depressed that he lost his grace and I’m still pissed and whatever, but we can bounce back. Cas can bounce back. I’m gonna stick to it and I don’t care what he says, I’m goin’ to keep helping him.” He took a box of pasta out from one of the bags, shaking it in the air, dry noodles rattling. “Gonna make that dumbass angel’s favorite food tonight and we’re gonna talk it out. And in the grocery store, I saw this apple-picking festival that’s happening this weekend—he’d probably like to get some fresh air and we can introduce him to a human tradition, double-win. We can show him that being a human isn’t so bad, I’ll even help him hunt, whatever, and we can—”

Sam couldn’t take it anymore. “ _ Dean _ .” 

The urgency in Sam’s voice made Dean turn around. He eyed him warily. “What? What is it?”

When Sam didn’t answer, Dean jolted forward like a shot out of a gun, striding quickly across the kitchen, shoulders set in fight mode. “What’s wrong? Is it Cas?”

Sam just shook his head. “Uh, Dean, Cas is…”

“What? Cas is _ what _ , Sam?” 

“Cas is gone.”

Dean blinked. “Yeah, you said that before. Where did he go? Is he gonna be back soon?”

Sam could only seem to shake his head. “He wanted me to tell you that… that he was sorry.” 

Dean stared at him. He opened his mouth, as if to say more, to demand more, but something clicked behind his eyes. “You let him leave,” he said, voice brooking no question.

“He was going to anyway,” Sam whispered miserably. 

Dean continued to stare. “He didn’t even leave a goddamn note?”

“He…” Sam cleared his throat. “He mentioned one. It’s in his bedroom somewhere.”

Dean nodded. Stared at the box of pasta in his hand, unmoving.

Sam’s heart sank to his shoes when Dean pivoted on his heel, leaving the kitchen. A bag of groceries on the counter tipped over in his wake, vegetables clattering to the floor. 

Sam sat, unmoving, barely breathing; winced when he heard the door to Dean’s room softly click close, the lock firmly turning into its place.

It was worse than a slammed door. A slammed door meant that Dean still had hope, had energy, had drive; that he had anger that will fuel him to solve the problem. 

The door closing, silent and unintrusive, was a man giving up. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bet you thought the pain was over in light of the last chapter, huh :)))
> 
> also, i've been getting comments asking what's in the note, what cas did, etc. here's what we DON'T know (but I will definitely reveal) if you need a recap in this very long and confusing WIP:
> 
> 1\. i haven't revealed what the note from cas to dean says  
> 2\. i haven't revealed why cas lost his grace  
> 3\. i have hinted at, but not TRULY stated, ultimately why cas decided to leave the bunker  
> 4\. we don't really know firmly what and who the monster is 
> 
> but don't worry, this is all addressed!! i promise!!
> 
> please let me know what you thought! I am still working on replying to comments from the last chapter, thank you so much for your support and feedback guys. seriously. <3


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived.”
> 
> -Henry David Theoreau

They lay there, in the after, limbs tangled and breath mingling. Neither of them moving.

Dean stares at the ceiling. At the way the street-lamps’ outside light is broken by the curtains and shatters itself across the plaster. 

His chest heaves, and he can’t stop his body from shaking.

“Are you cold?” Cas asks, a whisper, like they’re in a chapel where even the air is sacred. At Dean’s nod, Cas pulls the thin sheet around their bodies and they lay together, chests flushed, Cas’ arm draped across his.

“Better?” Cas murmurs.

“Yeah,” Dean says. The room is dark, but this close he can see the sharp blue of Cas’ eyes.

There’s a tense silence that hangs. It’s almost as if they acknowledge what happened, it’ll go back to a fantasy that replayed in Dean’s head countless times, instead of the reality it’s become.

So instead he brushes Cas’ bare arm, feels the raised skin on his shoulder. Skims his fingers across the white scar slashed across Cas’ bare chest. 

“These new?” Dean asks, knowing the answer.

Cas nods. “A few hunts gone awry.”

Dean doesn’t really want to respond to that. It’s implied that they’re from Cas’ time away; from his separation from Dean. From running away, trying to make himself useful or some bullshit, when Dean never thought he was ever useless. 

Dean doesn’t want to know about that time away — and yet it’s all he wants to know. Even to answer the burning question of  _ why _ ?

So he clears his throat, and stops being chicken. He says, “Tell me about ‘em.” 

Cas’ eyes go wide. “About the hunts?”

“Yeah, why not.” Dean’s fingers outline the scar on Cas’ chest. “What’s this one from?”

Looking down, Cas hums thoughtfully. “A ghoul, I think. I was thrown against the wall; there was a sharp beam sticking out from it.” 

“Stitches?”

“Twenty.”

Dean whistles lowly. Ignores the pang in his stomach. Instead, he pokes at Cas’ arm. “This one?”

“A hunter. We had… a disagreement.” 

Dean doesn’t want to know further than that. He brushes his thumb across the bottom of Cas’ lip instead, at a tiny scar he noticed earlier. “And this?” 

Cas’ lips quirk up in a small grin. “A little more embarrassing. A dog bit me there.” 

“You try to make out with it or something?”

“Tried to pet it, more like.” 

“Way to go, Dr. Doolittle,” Dean snorts. 

“In my defense, it seemed approachable at first.” 

Dean huffs out a laugh. Runs his hand up and down Cas’ arm distractedly. “You went through a lot in the past year, huh?”

Cas stills. Sighs. “Dean, we don’t have to talk about this.”

“I want to.” 

“Why now?” Cas demands.

Dean bites his lip; worries it between his teeth. “Just seems like something that’ll come up in the future anyway. Why not nip it in the bud?”

There’s a withdrawal of Cas’ heat when he sits up and leans his back against the headboard. He massages his temples with his fingers. Dean remains lying on the bed, looking up at him, feeling the cold again.

“Maybe I don’t want to talk about it,” Cas says.

“Why not?” Dean asks. He already knows the answer. Already can feel the sense of deja-vu, the sense of… wrongness. That whatever he and Cas had, it’s fleeting, and fleeing. 

Cas sighs; his shoulders concave. “The few days before I saw you, I had it all figured out. I was going to explain everything to you: why I left, why it wasn’t your fault, why I needed space… how stupid I was. And you were mad, justifiably. But the more time we spent together and the more I realized how much I hurt you, I realize now how inconsequential and weak those excuses are. Even now…” He shakes his head. “Even now I can’t bring myself to explain.”

Dean lifts himself up onto an elbow. He fixes Cas with a determined glare. “Well, try.”

“It’s complicated.” 

“Just spit it out, Cas, I can take it.” (even though he can’t, even though he’s balancing on a thread and barely keeping his cool—)

“I…” Cas falters. “I’ve been thinking about what you said yesterday. About, how do you know if I’ve changed. If the situation has changed. That I won’t just disappear again. And I left so as… not to hurt you. But I see now that I did the opposite, that I’ve irrevocably changed the trust between us.” 

“Cas—” 

“And the truth is,” Cas continues, barreling over Dean’s words, “is that you don’t know I won’t hurt you again. I clearly don’t know how to help you rather than harm you.” 

“Cas, no, listen.” Dean scoots to where Cas sits, pushes his bare shoulder into his, leans his head against Cas’. “I’m not going to sugar-coat it for you, okay? I was pissed when you left. And it hurt. But it doesn’t mean we can’t fix this, okay? I just… I just need an explanation.” 

“It was our fight,” Cas quietly says. 

“Yeah, but we had fights before. We could get around that one, too.”

“This was different. This made me realize…” Cas cuts off. Pushes his hand into his forehead, shakes his head back and forth. “No. It’s not important. I just… I don’t want to put that burden on you, or make you feel that way again.”

Dean forces down the frustration curdling his gut. “Cas, you gotta just tell me, man. You say you don’t want to hurt me again? Well, pulling away is worse. Leaving is worse.” 

“I disagree,” Cas says with a shivering breath. “What I feel, what I inevitably think of… all this. Is worse.” 

Dean’s harsh breaths fill the momentary quiet. “Are you sayin’ you regret what we did?” 

Cas comes to life, then, quickly turning and taking Dean’s hand. “No, not at all. Not in the slightest. I regret—” He licks his lips. “I regret not handling my emotions as a human. Not knowing how to process them. Hurting you.” 

“Cas.” Dean looks at their joined hands. “Cas, my fears of you leaving again ain’t gonna get better until you just… open up once in a goddamn while. You’re not giving me the whole story. Haven’t since I’ve seen you. And you’ve let me be angry, you’ve let me be hurt, you’ve let me pull you this way and that and you haven’t even stood up for yourself.”

“I tried to explain. At first.” 

“Yeah, but was it really the whole story? I mean you said you had to go off and figure out what it’s like to be human—to be useful—read  _ Walden  _ or whatever that book was and go dancing naked in the woods, I don’t know—”

Cas protests, “I was not dancing  _ naked _ —” 

“But that’s not the whole story, man. I  _ know  _ that it’s not the whole story.” 

A beat. With a jerky movement, Cas rises to his feet, untangling himself from the sheet. He stands there, a hand running through his hair, staring at the ground. “I didn’t know you found the note.” 

Dean picks at the blanket. “Yeah, well… I did.” 

“I would do anything,” Cas says, “to take back what I said in that note. To show you that I never meant it.” 

“You can show me by just…” Dean waves a hand uselessly in the air. "Just by talking to me about it, Cas.” 

Cas picks up his t-shirt from off the floor, shrugs it over his shoulders. Dean’s heart plummets when he pulls on his jeans, too. “I can’t talk about it,” he finally says. 

Dean laughs humorlessly. Pulls the blanket up more toward his middle. “Your stupid books didn’t teach you anything about how to have an honest conversation, huh?”

Cas stares at the floor for a moment. “I suppose not.” It’s a quiet exit, as he turns on his heel, socked feet padding across the carpet. 

Dean stares at the empty space in his wake. “Fuck.” He sits at the edge of the bed, head cradled in his hands. He knew that talking about it was a mistake. He knew it would push Cas away. He knew, and he did it anyway. 

Fishing his discarded shirt from the floor, he yanks it on.  _ Cas could leave,  _ says something in the back of his head.  _ You pushed him too far this time.  _ Dean pulls on his pants, takes a few too many tries to push the button through the loop. 

_ He’s going to leave, and he won’t leave a number for Sam this time. Won’t be in contact with anyone. _

Dean goes down on his hands and knees, rummages around for his socks under the tossed-away pillows, under the bed. Hits the bed in frustration when he only finds one.

_ He could die on a hunt this time and you wouldn’t even know. _

Dean kicks the bed frame, bare foot smacking against the metal. It shakes under the sudden movement. “Shut  _ up,”  _ he tells the buzzing in the back of his mind, the anxiety leaking through his veins. 

It’s not like last time, he tries to reassure, tries to reason. He won’t leave again. 

But he even tried to use the emotional kid gloves this time, tried to figure out what the hell was going on with Cas without asking too much. Without blowing his top like he did to make Cas leave the bunker in the first place. 

Dean finds his other sock under the dresser. He pulls it on and runs a hand through his hair. Takes a breath before walking out of the room to go find the stubborn angelic son of a bitch. 

He tries not to read too much into it when he doesn’t find Cas in the kitchen. Or in the living room. Or the spare bedroom on the first floor. Or any of the bathrooms.

Dean tries, very hard, not to have his chest clench at the lack of Cas’ backpack by the door, at the empty space on the couch where Cas’ leather jacket once lay.

He tries, unsuccessfully, to ignore the crinkle of the note in the back pocket of his jeans as he walks from room to room, calling Cas’ name.

“God damn it.” He digs his phone out of his pocket and checks for any missed calls before texting Sam and telling him to hurry his sasquatch ass up. Dean walks to the counter, taps his fingers restlessly against it, runs a shaky hand over his mouth. 

Cas could be on a walk. Out getting groceries. Saw a butterfly outside the window and wanted to chase it, or whatever the hell else.

Dean bites at his thumbnail. Glares at the kitchen counter. Probably not a butterfly that made Cas leave.

But staring at the kitchen counter makes him notice it. Tiny flecks of dark, like a splatter, barely noticeable against the granite grey. 

His eyes scan the kitchen, and he sees the further evidence: an indent in the plaster on the wall next to the cabinets, a couple of dishes scattered errantly across the counter, a drinking glass lying in a pool of water. Rounding the corner, he crouches next to the glass. His eyes follow the trail of water toward the living room. 

Dean rises to his feet. Grabs a steak knife out of the cutlery drawer. Steadily walks toward the living room, knife raised. 

He nearly trips over Cas’ backpack when he walks around the couch. It’s half-open, the cloth around the zipper torn. Dean yanks it fully open; Cas’ silver knife is still inside. 

“You were trying to get it out,” Dean murmurs. He glances across the room: more evidence of a fight becomes clear, with the armchair being knocked four feet to the left of where it was this morning, a shattered lamp tilted against the wall rather than standing on its own. 

“How the fuck did I miss this?” Dean asks himself. Shattered glass isn’t quiet. The house is cavernous, sure, but a fight this big—

Dean can see something out of place, toward the back door, the one that connects to the garage. A place he didn’t walk to when he was looking for Cas. 

He knows what’s on the ground without even looking. He knows what will be there, but would rather stay ignorant, would rather run out the door and not look back.

His hunting training, innate and stubborn, pushes his feet forward. 

Stomach plummeting to his shoes, Dean takes in the scene before him. Blood is spattered across the white door in a wide arc, a good amount of it staining the floor in front of it. The door open, wood splintered at the hinges, reveals a trail of blood leading through the garage. 

Dean adjusts the knife in his sweaty palm. His steps echo through the empty garage as he follows the blood trail to the door that leads to the outside. As he predicted, the trail ends by the fence. 

He takes a shuddering breath. On that breath, he turns and walks back into the house, shuts the garage door. His hands are shaking when he pulls out his phone and clicks Sam’s number on speed-dial.

“Dean, for Christ’s sakes,” Sam snaps through the receiver. “I’m coming, okay? I’m driving at least 20 over the speed limit, and—”

“Sam.” It must be something in Dean’s voice, because his younger brother shuts up immediately. “ _ Sam _ ,” he says again, this time his voice cracking more than it should, this time with his throat closing.

“Dean? What is it? What happened?” 

He clears his throat before talking again. Looks away from the blood soaking its way into the white carpet. “Monster took him,” Dean says. “The monster took Cas.”

 

* * *

It’s cold.

It’s the first thing that Cas notices as he regains consciousness: that it’s cold, against his bare feet, all around his body, even inside his mind. Cold.

“Oh, good. You’re finally awake.” 

He tries to lift his head toward the voice. The muscles in his neck twitch painfully from the effort. An involuntary gasp punches from him when he tries to move his arms, hot pain searing along them. 

“I wouldn’t move yet,” the voice says, a small laugh following the words. “Unfortunately our little… scuffle took a bit more out of you than I intended.” 

Cas blinks into the dim light. His vision wavers, focuses. When he can finally take in the figure in front of him, standing with her arms crossed and leaning with her hip against the table, Cas says hoarsely, “Dean was right.” 

Faith scoffs, flipping a strand of hair behind her shoulder. “He was right because I  _ told  _ him he was right. That clumsy idiot didn’t come to the conclusion all by himself.”

“He’s not an idiot.” But Cas’ voice is too disused, so it comes out cracked and hard to understand. He licks his dry lips and tries again. “What do you want with me?”

With a sigh, Faith turns her back to him. “That’s such a loaded question, Castiel. I don’t even know where to start.” 

“Try,” Cas says in a flat tone. 

“Well.” She walks toward him, hands together. “I first wanted both you and Dean. You both seemed very delicious. On our walk around the lake—” She gestures behind her, toward the closed door that Cas can barely make out in the dim light. “You really stood out to me as one of the best meals I’d have in a while.” 

“So you do eat your victims,” Cas says. He cringes when she puts a finger on his lips. 

“Shh, little angel. You wanted me to tell the story, didn’t you?” At his silence, her smile grows wider. “So I attacked Dean at the party—I have one of these powers, you see, where I can go into your mind and sift through the worst of it. That’s how I eat, actually. You’ll see soon.” With a wink, she runs her hand along the binds holding Cas—he recognizes it as the same substance that burned his skin at the soccer field. “When I went into his head, I found pain, guilt, loneliness… all the good stuff. But then I found you. And you were just… irresistible.” 

Cas guesses, “So I became your sole target.” 

“Precisely.” She taps his nose. “I had hunters on my trail—those fake ones, May and Bob, but then I realized Dean was a Winchester and, well, that sealed it. I had to just pick one of you. Lucky for you, you fit the bill.” 

Cas sighs, “Really.”

“Yes, really.” She strokes a hand over his cheek, causing a shudder through his body. “Your loneliness is especially potent because of what you lost. I saw it in Dean’s memories: you lost your grace, your usefulness, your friendship with Dean…It’s wonderful.” 

“What are you?” Cas hisses. He pulls against his restraints, feeling the burn of it cut into his wrists. “I’ve never encountered something like you.”

She tilts her head; smiles. “There aren’t many like me. No one has even named us. We just… love eating your feelings. Your bad ones, specifically.” 

It makes sense why she’d make her victims relive their worst memories. May’s sister, Dean, soon to be himself—they all had to relive the memories in order to feel the emotions associated. 

A shiver makes its way down Cas’ spine when he thinks of the victims dead, bled dry—assumedly not able to take the psychic onslaught anymore.

“So what now?” Cas asks. His voice is stronger than he feels.

Faith takes a step back. Smiles sweetly. “Well, I’m hungry, so… if you don’t mind, I’m going to eat.” 

Cas can only feel a flash of panic, fear, pain, before something latches onto his mind, needling into his brain and worming its way into his thoughts. He feels turned inside out, extracted, completely out of his own control as memories he’d rather keep locked far away begin to surface.

His birth as an angel—

Lucifer’s fall—

Naomi’s reprogramming—

Dean’s face as Cas disappointed him, again and again—

“Let’s start with the worse memory you got in your arsenal, huh?” he hears Faith say. “The time you lost that grace of yours? I was going to save that bit for last, but that guilt and loss you feel from it is just so… delicious.” 

Cas screams, tries to resist, but it doesn’t matter because Faith is in control and she’s making him relive it, relive the loss and the grief, see it over and over—

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> poor cas, i always hurt him in my fics i'm realizing, i think i need an intervention.
> 
> aaand ok, time to get serious for a sec. I'm sure most of you have seen that the next season of supernatural is the last. It's sad; and I'm sad. And I've seen a couple of people in my inbox/on this fic commenting and worrying that I'll stop writing destiel since the show is ending next year. But I'm planning on writing for this damn ship as long as my fingers and brain will let me. I have about 100 story ideas ready to fall out of my butt and I can't wait to write them. :) 
> 
> alsO buckle in because the next couple of chapters are going to be all the answers but also a lot of angst that'll eventually end in happiness


	24. interlude; may 2013

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for all your wonderful comments on the last few chapters! I'm slowly trying to answer them all ^^; i appreciate you guys all so much. we're in the home stretch now...

Sam tries not to think about it, not to dwell on it for too long. But the memories snake their way back into his mind, insistently crowding in. He overturns every detail, plays over every moment—because that’s what he does in the face of life-altering events. He analyzes and dissects and tries to find the hidden meaning in it. Why it happened.

Not that his over-analysis ever works.

He can still hear the creak of the church, still feel the rotting wood panels groan under his feet as he ran across them. Dean was in the middle of the room, on his knees, head bowed. Crowley was tied up and cast across the ground a few feet away.

After the temporary relief of seeing his older brother alive had passed, Sam took in Dean’s closed eyes, his ashy pallor. Dean wasn’t all right; hadn’t been for months.

Sam remembers the barely-noticed skid of his knees against the ground as he fell toward Dean, gripped his arms.

Dean’s head lolled, tilting up to Sam. He smiled, a weak and feeble thing. “Hey, Sammy.”

“Dean,” Sam said. “Dean, did you do it? Is Hell closed? What the hell is happening?”

“Almost did it,” Dean said, breath shallow. His frame was trembling, and it seemed an effort to get out the words. “Just one more step to do.”

An icy chill shot through Sam. “No, Dean. I won’t let you do it, okay? I won’t fucking let you—”

Dean’s hand landed clumsily on Sam’s head, patting it in what Sam assumed was supposed to be consoling. “It’s already happening, okay? Crowley turned human, or he’s dead, I don’t fucking know. Just—” Dean winced. “Son of a bitch. Can we talk about this while I’m lyin’ down?”

“No,” Sam said, pulling Dean to his feet. “No, you don’t lie down, okay? I’m going to pray to Cas, he’ll know what to do. He’ll—”

“Cas is doin’ his part,” Dean slurred, body leaning into Sam. “He’s boarding up Heaven, like he should. And me, this is—this is my thing. He knows that. We talked about it. He agreed to it.”

Sam shook Dean off him; Dean stumbled and would have fallen if not for Sam’s hand clutching his arm. Sam said incredulously, “He wouldn’t want you to _die_ for this, Dean!”

Licking his lips, Dean wearily sunk to the ground. His legs hit the rotting floorboords. “Let it go, okay, Sam? I signed up for this. I’m… seein’ it through.”

Sam knew what it was like to see Dean slip away, to die; he’d seen it countless times. He gets that look in his eye, like he’s seeing something far-off in another plane of existence. Somewhere Sam can’t ever follow. His face somehow gets paler. That fight that’s always in Dean, that tense energy that ties Dean to the world of the living… it goes away.

Like it was doing right then; wilting away as Dean laid on the floor.

“I’m tired, Sam,” Dean sighed. “I’m tired of all this bullshit. And if dying means closing these gates, if that’s what I gotta do to be something of use, then that’s fine. I’m okay with it.”

“I’m not,” Sam protested, grabbing Dean’s hand like it’ll keep him there, a lifeline. “We’ll find another way. We’ll—”

“It’s gotta be this way, Sammy,” Dean said. He coughed. Sam resolutely ignores the blood that spotted his lips. “I die, gates close. That simple.”

“ _No._ We’ll find another way, okay? Just—” Sam stopped, his heart stopped, everything stopped when Dean lost consciousness. He watched, paralyzed, as Dean’s head fell to the side, cheek pressed into the dirty ground.

“Cas,” Sam said, eyes not leaving his brother. “Castiel, you need to help us. Dean’s _dying._ Please—”

A rush of air and Cas was by their side. Hair wild, eyes wide, he only needed a moment to take in the scene before him. He dropped to his knees beside Dean. “Sam. I didn’t think…”

“Didn’t think what, Cas?” Sam grabbed Cas by the arm, shaking him until Cas turned his desolate expression to his. “You knew this would happen, didn’t you? You knew and you didn’t stop it, right?”

Cas closed his eyes and sighed. “We all knew, Sam. Even you. We knew the price, we just didn’t acknowledge it.”

“Well I don’t accept the price! Stop it from happening, Cas!”

“I promised,” Cas said, barely above a hush. “I promised him—”

“I don’t care what you promised.” Sam gave a cursory wipe of his nose with his sleeve. “I know that Dean has to die to close the gates but—it’s not worth it, okay? You need to save him, Cas, please.”

Cas hesitated; pressed two fingers to Dean’s sweat-stained forehead and grimaced. “He’s too far gone.”

“What the hell does that mean, ‘too far gone’?” Sam demanded. “Do you mean that you can’t save him?”

“Other uses will have to be employed.” Before Sam could ask what the hell that meant, Cas once again pushed his fingers to Dean’s forehead.

Dean’s eyes shot open and he gasped a huge burst of air. Blinking blearily, he glared up at Cas. “Warn a guy, won’t you,” he grumbled, rubbing at his chest.

“Dean,” Cas said firmly. He placed a hand on Dean’s shoulder. “Dean, you’re dying.”

“No shit.” Dean closed his eyes again, as if to speed the process.

“ _Dean._ ” Cas shook him, jolted him awake. “I can’t heal you with my grace alone. You need to let me possess you; let me in so I can heal you intrinsically, so I can—”

“No, no way,” Dean said, pushing himself to his elbows and inching away from Cas. “You promised, man. No possession. No nothing. I said I’d do these fucking trials, I said—” He stopped, coughs wracking his body.

“Dean, let him do it,” Sam implored. “It’s _Cas_ , okay? It’s not Michael, it’s not some trick—we want to _save_ you.”

“I don’t care. I said—”

“I don’t care what you said!” Sam cried. “You can’t just—”

Dean snapped, “Look me dead in the eye, Sam, and tell me that you wouldn’t do what I’m doing right fucking now.” It seemed to take most of his energy, but he held his head up, glaring. “Tell me that you wouldn’t be refusin’ the same thing, for the greater good.”

“Dean,” Cas said softly. “You can’t just expect us to let you die.”

Dean laid back on the ground; he was shaking. “It’s better this way,” he said, eyelids at half-mast. Sam could see that he was drifting again. “Just let me go, Cas, I’m… I’m tired. I’m fucking _tired_.”

There was a heavy, deathly silence that hung over them. Sam blinked back hot tears.  He knew there was no reasoning with Dean when he was like this; no hope of it.

Sam looked at Cas: where Sam was devastated, Cas was stone. He just stared at Dean, frozen, like there was some huge decision to be made that Sam couldn’t see.  

“Cas,” Sam whispered.

It made him snap to attention. Cas turned his head to Sam. Looked down at Dean, who was shaking violently on the floor. “No,” he said.

“What do you mean ‘no’?” Sam asked. “You said he was too far gone. That your grace couldn’t help him.”

“I need you not interfere,” Cas told Sam. He grabbed Sam’s shoulder in a vice-like grip. “No matter what happens. Do _not_ interfere.”

Sam nodded dumbly; didn’t even have the presence of mind to understand what Cas could mean.

Dean, on the other hand, was shaking his head, weakly trying to rise, heels scrambling against the floor. “Cas, what are you doing?”

“Saving you,” Cas snapped. He flung off his trenchcoat; rolled up his sleeves. Held a hand toward his chest that was beginning to turn blue.

Dean’s eyes widened. “Cas, stop it, you stupid bastard. This isn’t some fucking game. I swear to God, if you do it—”

“I’m choosing this,” Cas said firmly.

“Cas, you _promised._ You promised you’d let me go. You promised me no more fucking sacrifices. You said—”

“I’m _choosing_ this,” Cas said again, voice tight. The blue on his chest grew brighter, seemed to shatter and crack through his skin. “I know what I promised. But I can’t let you go, Dean. I’m sorry, but I can’t. I’m choosing to save you.”

“I’m the one dying, it’s _my_ fucking choice _._ ” Dean’s voice was nothing but a scratchy whisper, it was all he could manage. “It isn’t my choice for you to be a lunatic, put your life in danger—” His voice broke with another round of hacking coughs.

It clicked, in that moment. Sam knows now that he should have said something; should have told Cas to take another moment to just… think about it.

But instead, he stared, dumbfounded, as Cas put a hand to his chest and seemed to _pull._ The glowing blue light leaking from his chest began to filter through his neck, then his arms, then through every part of his skin. Sam had to look away, had to shield his eyes against.

Sam could hear Dean shouting for Cas to stop, but it became whipped away in the din of the church shaking, got lost in the sound of Cas screaming.

It all ended in a moment.

And it’s strange, now that Sam looks back at it. There was no epic journey, no long road to complete where it was all going. No way for any of them to reconcile what was going to happen. Cas simply saw the future he would have—a future without Dean—if he did nothing, and he acted.

It only took one terrible moment for Cas to make his decision, and change his and Dean’s future forever, with Sam having to pick up the broken pieces left behind. Without any thought, without any hesitation.

When the dust and wind cleared, Sam saw two prone figures on the ground. Dean pushed himself to his knees, looking less pale than he had in months. He was teetering, walking toward Cas who laid on the ground, chest heaving, hand still pushed against his chest where he had extracted the essence of himself.

“Dean,” Sam gasped, grabbing his brother by the shoulders and helping him stand. Dean looked around him, like he forgot where he was. Dean’s eyes flashed blue for just a moment before he blinked, the normal familiar green of his eyes staring up at Sam.

“Where’s Cas?” Dean muttered. Even though he didn't have the energy for it, he looked over Sam's shoulder. "Did he die? Is he..."

“No, Dean, he didn't die," Sam said. "I’ll get him. It’ll be fine. Let’s just get home." He called over his shoulder, “Cas? Are you okay?”

Across the room, Cas sat up, breathing heavily, hand to his chest. His eyes were trained on Dean and nothing else. “Is he healed?”

"Cas," Sam said, exasperatedly, "I asked if you're okay."

"Sam, damn it, tell me if he's healed or—"

Sam said, "He's fine." He tried for a reassuring smile. Cas stared at him, swaying unsteadily on his feet. Sam reiterated, “He’s fine, Cas, going to be totally fine.”

Cas looked older than he ever did in that moment. He dropped his chin to his chest and nodded. “Good. That's... good.”

Sam was able to get them in the Impala and point the car in the direction of home. Sam kept glancing between Dean in the passenger seat, exhausted, head drooped against the headrest and eyes shut, and Cas in the back. Every time he looked in the rearview mirror, he saw the most desolate look on Cas’ face. A vacant, faraway look that Sam would become acquainted with over the next few months.

It confirmed what Sam already dreaded:

that all of Cas’ grace was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for reading, everyone. seriously. and giving your feedback... it makes my day.  
> (i promise everything will turn out ok in this fic, even though it's a bit bleak at the moment)


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “There are a thousand hacking at the branches of evil to one who is striking at the root.” 
> 
> -Henry David Thoreau, 'Walden'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey everyone! sorry about the delay on this chapter. it fought me. i have battle wounds. but we made up. sort of.
> 
> (also, this chapter is split into two - hopefully it'll make sense why i did that while you're reading. so enjoy the extra long chapters!)

 

Cas has been gone for more than 12 hours.

Dean counts the hours, as they go by. Counts them as he wanders the neighborhood in the middle of the night, looking for any clues as to where Faith could have taken Cas. Counts them as he canvases the neighborhood at first light, asking if they’ve seen either Cas or Faith, ignoring their questions of concern. He watches the hours tick by in the top right corner of his laptop screen as he researches anything in the hunter’s databases and chat channels, anything that could indicate what species Faith is.

Sam finds him that way, hunched over the kitchen table and laptop. He yelps and springs backward when Dean whips out his gun and points upon hearing the front door open.

“Oh,” Dean says. He slams his gun on the table and wipes a hand across his forehead. “Jesus, Sam, warn a guy.”

“I said your name three times,” Sam says exasperatedly. He dumps his bag onto the ground. “What happened, Dean?”

“Cas was taken. Or do you need me to get a headline on today’s newspaper to remind you?”

“Yes, I know he was taken, Dean,” Sam says, “you called me at least ten times while I was in the car.” He pushes a hand through his hair and huffs out a sigh. “Tell me _how_ it happened.”

“That bitch happened.” Dean starts pacing the perimeter of the table, running a hand up and down his side absently. “She just—came in here and took him. I didn’t even hear it. There was a struggle, freakin’ evidence of one, and I didn’t hear a damn thing from upstairs. I couldn’t—”

“Dean,” Sam snaps. It makes something in Dean’s head attach onto the sound, making him focus. “You’re rambling, okay? I need to know what happened.”

Dean falls into a chair and stares at his hands. There’s dirt shoved under his fingernails. He spent hours pushing bushes and plants aside looking for any evidence of Cas and Faith’s trail. There’s still blood staining his palms from trying to clean Cas’ blood off the floor.

“Dean.”

He’s jolted from his own mind, looks at the earnest and sympathetic expression of his younger brother. “Yeah. What.”

“When’s the last time you slept?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Dean grunts. “I don’t think you’re getting it, Sam. Cas is _gone_. He’s been gone for more than 12 hours.”

“I know, okay? And I’m worried about him too. I really am. But we need to think straight here.”

“I’m thinking straight, believe me,” Dean says. “Straight to wanting to kill that bitch.”

Sam gestures to the open laptop. “Did you find anything indicating what type of monster she could be?”

“Nothin’.” Dean scrubs a hand over his face. “Nothing on the hunter’s websites, the back chat channels, even called up a few guys… Nothing.”

“Okay.” Sam leans over a kitchen chair, props his elbows onto the back of it. “I think we should canvas the neighborhood together. Two pairs of eyes is better than one, right? And she can’t have taken him far, since all the victims were found in this area.”

Dean suppresses a wince. “Yeah. True.”

“After that, we’ll check any abandoned building, any unleased property in town. Do it the usual way. It’s Cas, which makes it harder, but we can’t lose our heads and miss things.”

“Yeah.” Dean stands and only momentarily sways from the effort. Vaguely he remembers that he hasn’t eaten in a while. He grips the back of a chair. “How the hell did I not even hear him down here?” he murmurs.

“You said she was psychic,” Sam says. “Maybe there was a way that she messed with your head. Prevented you from hearing it.”

Dean grabs his gun from the table, the barrel scraping against the table. He pockets it under his waistband. “Should have been there,” he bites out. “Should have been down here with him, shouldn’t have let him leave the room in the first place.”

“It’s not your fault, Dean.”

Dean shrugs off the hand Sam puts on his shoulder. He tugs on his jacket and kicks Sam’s overnight bag out of the doorway. “We can start with Faith’s street.”

By some miracle, Sam doesn’t try to psychoanalyze Dean again on their walk to the cul de sac where Faith’s house is nestled. It’s a cold day and the wind is harsh on their backs.

“Not many people out,” Sam observes to the empty streets.

“The murder yesterday probably didn’t inspire any morning walks,” Dean says.

“Oh. Yeah.”

They stop in front of Faith’s house. Sam humorlessly grins at the broken window. “I see you already let yourself in.”

“Yeah,” Dean grunts. He sticks his hands in his pockets and squints against the wind. “I found jack shit in there, too. Just a normal house with barely any personal shit of hers. Whoever or whatever she is, she’s covering it all up pretty well.”

Sam sighs. “I’ll take the north, you take the south?”

Dean tries not to let it creep in, as he’s trudging down the streets of the neighborhood—for a second time, just not in the dead of the night with a 5-inch flashlight this time—at how useless this potentially is. That Faith could have squirelled Cas away literally anywhere, and they had no warm trail, no way of knowing where the hell she took him.

Cas is suffering somewhere and Dean can do nothing about it.

It’s the waking nightmare that had him staying up for hours in the bunker, staring at the ceiling, after Cas had left:the inability to do absolutely nothing to keep Cas alive and happy and whole.

Once he and Sam meet up again, Dean’s discouraged and pissed. At Sam’s empty shake of his head, his mood plummets further.

“So we’re supposed to waste our time looking all around town?” Dean asks. “Like I did all damn night?”

“Dean, this is our routine,” Sam says with clearly restrained calm. “This is how we find people. It takes time—”

“I _know_ that,” says Dean through gritted teeth. “You don’t think I know that? I just—” He pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs forcefully. Tells himself to not let it loose on his brother. “Let’s just get going already. Looking around this fucking neighborhood is a bust.”

They’re turning themselves back toward the model home, toward the Impala, when Dean hears the gratingly cheerful voices.

“Oh, Dean! Good morning!”

“Shit,” Dean says under a breath. He turns to greet Jari and Jerry with a thoroughly fake smile. “Oh, hey there… Jerrys.”

Jerry laughs. “Nobody’s referred to us in the plural like that before!”

“You don’t say,” says Dean.

“Uh, hi, I’m Sam,” says Sam, ever polite, holding out a hand to both of them. “I’m Dean’s brother.”

Dean wants to shoot Sam for being polite and get the hell out of there. But instead he holds back while Jerry and Jari both shake his hand, cooing, “Oh, your _brother_! I can see the resemblance, actually!”

“That’s the funny thing about genetics, ain’t it,” Dean says, pushing Sam to a walk. “Well, we gotta get going—”

Jari puts a hand on Dean’s arm. Dean resists glaring down at it. “Oh, Dean, where’s your husband, by the way?”

Dean licks his lips. “Well—”

“I wanted to give him an apple pie recipe that we were talking about at May’s dinner party a couple of nights ago.”

“We’re just going to find him now,” Sam says, smiling forcefully.

“Where’s he at?” Jerry asks, obviously chipper.

 _Jesus Christ,_ Dean all but shouts. “With Faith,” he says.. “But we don’t know where they are, so—”

“Faith, you say?” Jerry hooks a thumb over his shoulder toward the cul de sac. “Saw her just ten minutes ago leaving her house.”

Sam and Dean jerk to attention. Exchange a look. “Where was she going?” Sam asks.

“Uh.” Jerry pivots on his heel. He shades his eyes from the weak sun and squints off into the distance. “Not sure. Maybe south?”

“Oh, Jerry, that’s not south,” Jari chides, lightly slapping his arm. “She was going in the direction of the lake. That’s south _east_.”

“The lake?” Sam asks.

“Crystal Lake. It’s half a mile from here,” Dean explains with a significant look in Sam’s direction. “Faith took Cas there once.”

“Damn it,” Sam says.

Jari leans forward, face earnest, all but wringing her hands. “Did we say something wrong?”

“No, everything’s fine,” Sam says. “We just have to be going.”

Dean abandons all pleasantries and just starts striding away. He kicks himself for not thinking of it before. The lake was one of the first things that psychopath mentioned when she met Cas at that barbecue—Dean remembers Cas accounting the conversation to him later. And the fact that she even _took_ him there…

“Dean!” Sam runs to catch up, hair flopping. “Dean, we can’t just go barging in there. We need a plan.”

“Oh, I’m done planning,” Dean snaps. He pats the outline of his gun under his jacket. “We’re going there armed to the teeth and ganking that bitch.”

“We don’t know _what_ she even is.”

“Don’t care. We’ll try every weapon we got until one of them works.”

Sam sighs toward the sky. “Good lord.”

It begins to rain as they approach the car. Dean tumbles into the driver’s side, blinking away the wetness that’s attached to his eyelashes. He barely waits for Sam to shut his own door before careening out of the driveway.

“You have no idea what this thing could be?” Dean asks as he drives through a stop sign.

“No,” Sam says. He pulls the gun with silver bullets out of the glove compartment, opens the chamber to check it’s loaded. “But we have the facts. She kills her victims assumedly with some sort of psychic power since her victims have no physical wounds, she can disguise herself as a human, and she hand-selects her prey because of some sort of… requirement? Special reason?”

“Why the hell would she want Cas?” Dean asks.

“Well we know that all the previous victims were divorced or single. That was the only thing connecting them. But as far as everyone knew, you two were married.”

Dean squeezes the wheel. The leather cracks under his palms. He takes a left turn out of the gated community.

“Dean?” Sam pries.

“Maybe she knew we weren’t actually married,” Dean says. “She knew May and Bob were hunters. Fake hunters, but still hunters. She’s obviously not stupid.”

Sam leans back into the benched seat of the Impala, rubs his hands on his jeans. “People are lonely when they’re single,” he says.

Dean laces the muscles in his jaw tight and keeps it shut.

When the park comes into view, he aggressively peels into the parking lot and yanks the keys from the ignition. The rain is coming down in sheets now.

“You take the silver bullets, I’ll take the knife,” Dean says, voice competing with the banging of the rain against Baby’s windshield. “Probably wouldn’t hurt to get the wooden stake out of the trunk too.”

Sam tucks the gun into his waistband. “Where do you think she could be keeping him?”

“Somewhere he won’t die quickly.” Dean resists the shudder that threatens to run through him. He can’t have that distraction. “Somewhere sheltered.”

“And what’s the plan if we find that place?”

Dean clicks open the door. “We kill her.”

“Great plan,” he can hear Sam mutter as Dean goes head-first into the pouring rain.

 

* * *

 

It’s a warming house, turns out.

Sam finds it before Dean does; he’s always had better eyes than him. It’s situated across the lake, tucked into a parking lot on the south side. It sits dormant and clearly has not been open for months.

The door is locked when they get to it. Both brothers flatten against the wall on either side of it. At Dean’s nod, Sam bangs the padlock a few times with the butt of his gun before the wood splinters, a chunk of the handle clanging to the floor.

It’s predictably dark when they slowly step inside. The gloomy daylight at their backs barely illuminates the wide room.

Dean blinks and squints into the dark, waiting for his eyes to adjust. He wishes they hadn’t, once he can see what’s across the room.

A familiar outline is slumped in a chair against the back wall, unmoving, face tilted toward the ground.

Dean takes a split moment to compose himself. Breathes heavily through his nose. He nudges Sam with his elbow, nodding in the direction of where Cas is bound to the chair.

Sam says quietly, “Shit. Do you think he’s—”

“We check the room, then we go to him,” Dean whispers harshly. His instruction is more to himself than Sam.

“It’s a wide open space,” Sam says back, his voice low. “I’ll check the corners. You go get him.”

Dean hesitates before slowly walking to Cas. He tries not to focus too much on the details. Tries not to fixate on Cas strapped in a chair by the black substance, his neck and arms and legs all covered with it. Cas’ head hangs against his chest and he’s not moving.

Dean takes a steadying breath before kneeling down before him. “Hey, Cas. Buddy.” He slaps Cas’ cheeks lightly. Cas blearily opens his eyes.

“There you go,” Dean says, trying for a cheerful tone but knowing that he’s falling short. “There you go, you’re okay. You’re fine. We’re going to get you out of here, okay?”

Cas just stares at him.

“Cas? Can you hear me? Say something, man.”

Cas says, voice cracked, “It’s not real.”

Dean ignores the freezing in his veins. “I’m real, Cas, okay. I don’t know what Faith was doin’ to you but—”

“Dean, listen,” Cas says, his voice sounding like he swallowed a bunch of nails for breakfast. He’s looking at Dean, but his gaze is going right through him. “She… sucks memories. Feelings.”

“What are you talking about, Cas?” He puts a hand on Cas’ neck, where the black stuff hasn’t covered him.“You’re not making sense.”

Sam moves to stand behind Dean’s shoulder. “You’re saying that she feeds on memories?” he tries.

Cas wearily raises his head toward Sam. Nods.

“Like the opposite of a djinn,” Sam extrapolates. “Maybe it makes you live in negative emotion instead of a good one. Specifically your bad memories. That could mean—”

“I don’t care what the fuck it does,” Dean snaps. “We need to get him out of here.”

“If I had my grace, I could do something,” Cas mutters. His head lolls against his shoulders, like he’s trying to stay awake. “She’s vulnerable when she feeds. I could do something if I had my grace… my grace is…”

“Hey, look.” Dean puts a hand against the back of Cas’ neck, gently shakes him. “Don’t talk like that, okay? We’ll get you out of here and get you better. Grace or not. We’ll deal with her.”

Cas shakes his head. “Dean. Don’t.”

“Cas, cut it out, okay? We’re getting you out of here.”  

“She’s too powerful.”

“I don’t give a _shit_ about that, okay?” Dean tugs at the substance that envelopes Cas’ arms. “Sam, help me cut him out of this.”

Sam moves to help; freezes at the creak of the door behind them. Cas’ eyes grow wide and suddenly alert, looking at something unseen over Dean’s shoulder.

“You need to get out of here,” Cas says. “You need—” He winces, groans, his head falling back down toward his chest.

“Cas!” Dean shakes his shoulder. “Cas, what is it?”

Sam’s shout of warning makes Dean turn. He springs to his feet, gun drawn and pointed. Faith—or whatever monster lives under Faith’s superficial skin—is poised in the doorway. Its multiple limbs flicker and flow like demented tentacles. Its face is twisted into a predatory grin.

“So you found us,” it says. It’s Faith’s voice, but superimposed with another that’s pitched three octaves lower.

“What did you do to him, you son of a bitch!” Dean roars.

“You Winchesters should know by now what monsters do,” it trills. “I’m feeding. And you’re interrupting.”

“So you know who we are,” Sam says.

It turns its head toward Sam. Dean’s legs twitch with the urge to put himself between the monster and his brother.

“Of course I know who you are,” it says. “I saw it all in Castiel’s memories. His time as an angel, the creation of the universe, the fall of it, you two…” It laughs. “It was a very educational feeding.”

“Well, hope it got your jollies off, ‘cause you’re not getting near him again.” Dean raises his gun higher.

“Aw,” it titters. “That’s cute.” It slinks toward them. “Many hunters have tried, but none succeeded. It’s why there’s no records on my kind. We keep a… violently discreet life.”

Dean scoffs. “Yeah, well, if you saw anything on that trip down Cas’ memory lane, you probably learned that killing sons of bitches like you is our speciality.”

“Oh, I know,” it giggles. Its limbs grow, stretching toward them. “That’s why eating you next will be a special sort of triumph.”

Two limbs shoot through the air, straight for them. Sam and Dean move as one, rolling out of the way to avoid them. Dean hisses in pain when a streak of the black crap plasters on his skin.

Sam’s wrapped in one of Faith’s limbs; he flails and hacks at it with his silver knife. Dean neatly avoids another limb, hearing it smack on the ground just inches from him.

“You boys just sit pretty now until I finish this one off,” Faith says. It stretches one of its demented appendages toward Cas. Dean sees that Cas is unconscious again, slumped in the chair, helpless.

Dean remembers May; her words. How she could only stand there, paralyzed by the monster, as it killed her sister.

It only takes a moment to make his decision. Without any thought, without any hesitation. Dean sees those limbs going toward Cas, vulnerable and trapped in the chair, knows that it’s the final blow.

So acts. He jumps toward Cas’ chair, puts himself in the line of fire. Positions his back against the limbs coming toward Cas, and holds his arms around Cas’ head. Ignores Sam’s surprised shout, ignores the substance slamming into his back and enveloping him and making every part of his skin crackle.

Burning, pain, and then—

Nothing.


	26. interlude: indeterminable

Dean opens his eyes.

Immediately wants to close them.

But something is keeping them open, forcing him to see memories that are both his and not:

The creation of Earth, beautiful in its own way, but knowing deep down the painful destruction that would come of it.

John standing over him; yelling at him not to let sacrifice people, as Danny’s body, eyes open and unseeing and blood sprayed everywhere, lies just five feet away.

Thinking of green eyes, unable to look away, unable to reconcile the damage they would make him do.

Standing at the trunk of the Impala, trenchcoat clutched in his hands, shivering in the dark and the rain and knowing he won’t come, he’ll never come back, he’s dead, but waiting all the same.

Seeing him rake leaves, seeing him be happy with a mother and her son, having the whole and safe life he’s always wanted, knowing that he’ll never fit into that mould, but wanting to all the same.

Dean feels the pain, burning, longing, feels like he’ll get swept into a wave of it and be lost down the ocean trench forever but—

It stops.

He’s on a park bench.

On his left is Cas. He’s looking out into the distance. There’s a sunset bowing into the horizon. Something is strange about it, but Dean can’t put his finger on it.

Cas squints down at the park below, his face tight with tension. “Can I tell you something if you promise not to tell another living soul?” he asks.

Dean nods, slowly.

“I regret losing my grace.”

Dean looks down at his hands. The words sting, but he can’t put his finger on why.

“If I had been paralyzed as a human, it would have felt the same,” Cas continues. “Without my grace I’m limbless, weightless… worthless. I couldn’t reconcile that. I couldn’t burden you with that.”

Dean sees something in the horizon. A dark cloud. It’s ominous. Doesn’t belong.

“I thought leaving would solve it,” Cas is saying. He’s crumpling in on himself, looks smaller. “I thought if I could just understand my emotions, learn how to control them. I thought it would be better. I thought it would solve it.”

“Cas,” Dean says. His voice is hoarse and small. The wind picks up around them.

“Instead I hurt you. I try, and I hurt. I try to fix Heaven, it breaks. I try to save Sam from Hell, he breaks. I try to earn your friendship and your trust, and you break.”

“Hey, c’mon—” Dean hears lightning crack.

“If I could control it somehow. Remove myself from the situation. Stop breaking things.”

The wind whips Cas’ coat; the sky has turned black and brooding above their heads.

“Cas, the shit you’re saying isn’t true,” Dean says, louder, to stay above the wind.

“And I didn’t mean the note,” Cas chokes out. “I couldn’t help what I was feeling, I couldn’t—”

Rain splashes against Dean’s face. The swings in the park below thrash wildly. Dean can feel the ground rattle underneath his feet. “Cas, buddy, you gotta calm down—”

Cas puts his head in his hands. “It replays in my head. Every damn day it just goes round and round. I keep thinking of how I could have saved you _and_ the very essence of myself, how I could have done things differently and not fucked up everything I ever loved, how—”

A tree topples over next to them. In the fray, Dean pitches off his own bench and kneels in the wet grass before Cas. He grabs Cas’ legs. Shakes them until Cas is looking down at him with wide and wild eyes. “Cas, listen to me.”

“What could you possibly say?” Cas’ breath hitches, and somehow Dean can hear it despite the chaos around them. “How could you possibly make this better?”

“I can’t make it better, damn it,” Dean shouts. “You just need to focus. You need to think about the good things, not the bad, okay? Otherwise we’re not getting out of here.”

Cas nods. His face twists into something determined. That’s the thing Dean always has loved about Cas—him giving his all into everything.

“I can’t,” he admits, quietly.

Dean grabs Cas’ hand. “You just need to focus on one good memory. Just one. Everything’s running through your head right now. ”

Cas’ face tightens. He closes his eyes. “Everything. I can still see—everything. Every bad thing I’ve ever done, every awful thing—” Thunder cracks above their heads.

“Focus on me.” Dean presses his forehead to Cas’, takes his face in between his hands.  “Just focus on the good stuff. Like… remember that diner when Sam spilled that milkshake all over his lap?”

“Only you found that funny, Dean.”

“Fine, then. That night in the bunker when we watched Westerns together. When I fell asleep on your shoulder.”

That gets a smile out of him. It’s like the sun breaking. “That was nice.”

“Yeah? Okay, what about when Sam found that book on angels in the bunker and you spent the whole afternoon ranting about the inaccuracies? You enjoyed that, admit it.”

“Only because it made you laugh.”

“Then think about me laughing. Or Sam’s goofy princess hair. Or, shit, anything but the bad stuff that you’re being forced to remember right now.” Dean climbs up onto the bench next to him, puts an arm around his shoulder, touches his head against Cas’. “Think about that time when you, me, and Sammy were driving the open road just because we wanted to. Not for a case, or for anyone, it was just because we wanted to go get a burger somewhere good and blast Zeppelin while we did it.”

Cas nods. The rain becomes more of a gentle pattering around them. “That was nice.”

“You told me once that you love that memory of God creating the first flower. Which one was it again?”

“A sunflower,” Cas says. He looks down at his hands. “Because it tilts toward the sun.”

“Yeah, that one. Think about how I’m gonna bring you to a whole field of sunflowers once we get out of this.”

Cas gives Dean a deprecating grin. “That memory hasn’t happened yet.”

“Doesn’t matter. It’s gonna happen.”

Dean didn’t notice it before, but the wind is dying down around them. He can tell by the less frenetic movements of the swingset down the hill. Cas sharply clutching Dean’s hand brings him back to the conversation.

“What else?” Cas asks in a small voice.

Dean takes a steadying breath. “Think about yesterday. That was a supernova memory, right?”

Cas smiles. “Yes.”

“And we’re going to keep doing that again and again once we get out of here, okay?”

Dean can see Cas better, now that the dark clouds are dissipating. He sees Cas shift on the bench; look up hopefully. “You’re saying we’ll make more good memories? To replace the bad?”

“Hell yeah, Cas. We’ll push those bad memories out. We’ll move forward, okay?”

Cas’ eyes flicker down. He reaches out a hand and places it on Dean’s arm. It fits perfectly where the scar of his handprint is, etched on Dean’s skin. “I have a favorite memory.”

Dean places a hand on Cas’. “That’s not a good memory, Cas.”

“It is.” His hand presses tighter against Dean’s skin. “Pulling you out of Hell. Being the first one to reach you. Seeing how… gorgeous your soul was.”

“C’mon, Cas, buy me dinner first,” Dean scoffs, looking away.

“Dean.” Cas’ jawline is hard, determined. “Saving you; using my grace to heal you both times. It’s the best thing I’ve ever done.”

Dean’s eyes flicker toward his shoes. He asks, the words tumbling out, “Even though your grace is gone?”

Cas’ quiet laugh makes Dean look up. His breath catches in his throat at the sight of Cas full-on smiling at him, eyes bright, face finally free of tension. It’s a smile that Dean never saw when Cas was an angel.

“Yes, Dean,” he says, “even though my grace is gone.”

Somehow, hearing those words, Dean believes him. Doesn’t think, for once, that Cas’ sacrifice was a waste.

“You don’t break things, you know,” Dean murmurs. He places his hand over Cas’ covering the scar. “You rebuild. You, uh… you rebuilt me, anyway.”

Cas’ face melts. “Dean.”  

The handprint on his skin burns hotter.

Burning pain and then—

 

* * *

 

Dean opens his eyes.

He’s back in the warming house.

His arms still envelop Cas, but the black substance is dripping off them, like water.

He lifts his head. He can feel his face break into a smile at seeing Cas’ eyes open, staring up at him with clarity and without pain.

“Hey, Cas,” he says. His voice is choked. He hopes Cas doesn’t notice.

“Hello, Dean,” Cas says with a smile of his own.

“You guys, get _down_!” Sam shouts.

The familiar urgency in Sam’s voice spurs Dean to push Cas to the ground with himself on top of him without any hesitation. He raises his head in time to see one of Faith’s limbs pierce the drywall in front of them. Plaster rains on their heads.

“Oh, Dean,” she says in a tense sing-song voice. “You’re ruining my dinner, you know that?”

“Serves you fucking right!” Dean shouts back, coughing the dust out of his lungs.

Dean scrambles off Cas, helping him sit up. "You okay?"

Cas holds out his hand in response. “Give me a weapon.”

Dean takes in Cas’ pale face and blood trickling down the left side of his face with skepticism. “Cas—”

“Just.” Cas’ fingers flex. “Give me a stick, I don’t care.”

“Jesus.” Dean gives him his back-up gun in his back pocket, the one with the copper bullets.

With a nod of thanks, Cas rises to his feet and points his weapon to Faith. She’s turned back into her waifish human form.

“It’s over, Faith,” Cas says. His voice is surprisingly strong. “We didn’t fall for your mind games. You’re outnumbered. It’s done.”

With a grin, she wipes a trail of blood on her face with the back of her hand. “I’d hoped you had more respect for me than that, Castiel,” she says. “I put you into your little bad memories cage once, I can put you back there again. I know you have plenty of shit that I can feed on.”

Dean stands, his own gun drawn. “We’re not going to let you do that.”

Faith snaps, “Shut up, _Dean_ , the grown ups are talking.” Her eyes snap back to hold Cas’ gaze. “You know that feeling when the sky gets dark and your instinct is to shut your house and pull down your shades and throw the lights on, that’s what I am, the dark, except you can’t shut your door and turn on the lights. My darkness spreads into all corners of your mind, and there’s no stopping it. You’re _human_ and you can’t do anything about it.”

“You can try to put me back in my mind,” Cas tells her. He holds his gun higher. Begins to advance toward her, slowly. “You can try to feed on me again, trap me. But I’m just going to keep trying to kill you.”

Dean wants to hold out an arm and stop him; but he lets him go, and keeps his gun trained on Faith instead.

“Well then your death will be quick,” she hisses at Cas.

“That doesn’t scare me,” he spits back. “Because grace or not, I’m a hunter. And I’m doing what hunters do: kill you so that you can’t hurt anyone else.”

Her calmly set face contorts. She stomps a foot onto the ground, making it shake. “You don’t even know _what_ I am,” she screeches. “Or how to even kill me!”

Cas says, cocking a bullet into the gun’s chamber, “I’ll just keep trying until something sticks.”

And then a few things happen at once.

Cas shoots his gun. The bullet hits Faith in the chest but she doesn’t go down. Instead she holds her hands out, arms growing to an unnatural length. One grabs Cas by the throat. With a shout, Dean wildly unloads his chamber into her center mass. She barely stumbles backward.

Dean runs to the limb holding Cas by the throat, pulling out his machete, ready to wildly hack. Sam’s voice stops him.

“Dean! To me!” Sam is feet away from Faith, holding out his hands toward the ground. Dean’s hunted with him long enough to know what he means. The best way to kill a monster: its head.

“Fuck,” Dean says. He looks from Cas, whose face is turning an alarming shade of red-purple, and Sam.

“Do it,” Cas chokes out.

“ _Fuck._ ” Dean winds up his arm, skidding the machete across the ground with all his strength. He sees Sam catch the hilt in his hand. As soon as he does he grabs Faith’s limb, ignoring how the dark stuff burns his palms, pulls at it like it’ll do something.

He sees movement behind Faith. She’s holding out her arms, screaming, preparing to charge at them. She barely takes a step before Sam swings the machete into her neck.

It makes a clean cut. They all watch her head roll across the floor.

Her limbs that held Cas' throat in a bind shudder and break like clay, falling at their feet. Cas falls to his knees. Dean topples down with him, holding his shoulders. “Cas? Cas, you okay?”

Cas nods, coughing, running a hand across his neck. “I can’t believe that worked,” he says, voice rasp.

Dean looks over at his little brother standing there, machete in hand, breathing heavily. He stares at Faith’s head that’s on the ground.

He grabs Cas into a hug; puts a hand against the back of his neck. Feels him alive and breathing against him. “You’re okay?”

He can feel Cas’ arms slowly brace against Dean’s back. Cas buries his face into his shoulder. “I think I’m ready to go home,” he murmurs into Dean’s coat.

Dean let’s out an involuntary laugh. “Yeah, Cas.” Dean runs a hand through Cas’ hair; takes a shuddering breath. “Yeah, let’s go home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> only one more chapter guys..... *bites nails* 
> 
> i am trying to get all the comments answered by the end of the week!! thank you so much for all your feedback. i kid you not when i say that's literally what's fueling me to get this story finished.
> 
> if you wanna yell at me I’m @wanderingcas on tumblr


	27. Chapter 27

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Go confidently in the direction of your dreams. Live the life you have imagined."
> 
> -Henry David Thoreau, Walden

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i was planning on writing an epilogue to this story - but it just felt best to end it on this note. i really hope you all enjoy the ending (going off into a corner to cry now since this story has basically been my life since october).

 

For the first time since becoming human, Cas wakes up slowly.

His eyes flutter; his vision is momentarily blurry. He sees outlines and shapes before the image becomes fully defined: the curve of Dean’s back, the soft daylight filtering in from the closed curtains, the shape of the thick comforter pulled up to his chin.

Cas takes a deep breath. Wakes.

The movement rouses Dean from his sleep. With a sharp intake of breath through his nose, he turns his head to look over his shoulder. He squints at Cas, hair tousled. “You ‘kay?”

Cas smiles, feeling something in his chest constrict. “I’m fine, Dean.”

With a grunt, Dean rolls over to face him. He hesitantly pats the bandage covering half of Cas’ face. “Does it hurt?”

“Not at all.” Cas’ eyes flicker away from Dean’s. “Sam did a good job at bandaging it up yesterday.”

“Good.” Dean burrows further into the comforter with a yawn. “Shit, I’m beat. Good call, opting to stay here another night before getting on the road.”

“Dean, that was your idea.”

Dean grins. He reaches up to tap Cas’ nose. “Yeah, that’s why it was a good one.”

Cas reaches out a hand; plays with the fine hairs brushing against Dean’s forehead. “Are you sure that you’re feeling okay?”

“I should be asking you that,” Dean says, brow creased in a frown. He grazes a hand across the purple bruises on Cas' throat. “You were the one whose mind Faith screwed with all that time.”

“That doesn’t mean you can’t be hurt, too.”

Dean bites at his lip before licking it in thought. Cas tracks the movement. “Cas. Are we gonna talk about what happened in Faith’s weirdass dreamscape… thing?”

Cas closes his eyes. “Dean—”

“Listen, we don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to. But I just wanna tell you that I remember that whole thing. What you said and… everything. And I just want to, I dunno. Leave it open if you want to talk about it.”

There’s moments where Cas feels like he’s teetering on the ledge of that reservoir again. That he’s looking down at the rushing rapids, toes dangling over the side, Sam pulling at his shirt behind him and shouting for him to come down. He can still remember that feeling of weightlessness; the dizzying feeling knowing that if he were to fall, gravity would yank him down.

It’s this moment, looking into Dean’s earnestly hopeful eyes, that he feels himself ready to fall.

Cas pushes himself into Dean’s chest, laying his head on Dean’s shoulder. He feels as though he can’t look at him during this conversation.

“Everything I said was true,” Cas said. He feels Dean’s arms wrap around him. Feels a barely-there kiss in his hair. “In the note, in that dreamscape, in our fight. I have regrets. Not about you being alive, just—what I lost.”

He tenses, waiting for Dean to pull away. To shout at him like he deserves, to leave Cas behind. He winces when he feels Dean adjusting, sitting up against the pillows.

Cas pulls away. He props himself up on his elbow and looks up at Dean, who’s chewing his lip in thought, getting that faraway look he gets when he’s thinking.

“You know Cas,” Dean sighs. “All I wanted was for you to just… tell me what you were feeling or going through.”

Cas cringes. Looks away. “What I feel—”

“I can handle it, Cas. What you’re feeling is _human._ You don’t think I’ve thought shitty things before?” When Cas finally meets his eye, Dean plows on. “You don’t think I’ve never woken up in a cold sweat before, dreaming about Hell, and regretting, even just for a damn second, making the sacrifice to do it in the first place?”

“But you sacrificed it for Sam,” Cas says.

“I know that. But I still regret it sometimes, Cas, ‘cause I’m weak and I’m human. And then I see Sam’s stupid floppy head and I know it was all worth it. It’s the regret that it happened, not that I did it at all. But I still have that…” Dean huffs a breath, hangs his head. “I still have that moment of weakness. And I hate myself for it. But it’s just… it’s just being human, Cas.”

Cas’ face contorts. “Some humans are stronger than others.”

“Okay, fine, maybe that’s true. But the pain makes all of us think selfish shit. And it’s how we act on it. Not the fact that we felt it at all.”

Cas squeezes his eyes shut, feeling a pounding pain in his head. “I don’t regret… saving you,” he admits. “It’s not even the fact that I’m human, when I truly think about it. It’s just… my grace’s lost. I mourn it. I couldn’t even find joy, back in the bunker, even when you were alive and whole in front of me.”

Dean looks hesitant. “Cas, if you don’t want to talk about it—”

“No, I do.” Cas takes a steadying breath. “I couldn’t parse through my emotions as a human, and I didn’t know how to reconcile them. I felt guilt over taking your choice, when I couldn’t even stop myself from being a burden on you.”

“You weren’t a damn _burden_ —”

Cas blunders on, “Every time you helped me, every time I was useless on a hunt, all I could think was—I took away your choice. I violated your trust. And what were you left with? With me, useless and hanging on like a leech.”

Reaching down, Dean holds Cas’ face and pushes his finger against Cas’ jaw, clicking it shut. “You done being ridiculous?” he asks.

Cas glares. Nods.

It’s gentle, when Dean kisses him. “Let me say what I gotta say now,” Dean says, their breaths mingling. “You gotta understand, I grew up operating under a very specific John Winchester mantra: don’t let anyone die for you. Don’t let anyone owe something to you. I believed it, and when you did that for me… it just went against everything, I guess.” He adjusts himself against the headboard, tapping his fingers against his knee. “But you can’t control what people give up for you, Cas. I get that now. I wasn’t angry that you took away my choice—I felt guilty as hell about it. So I tried to make your life as a human _not_ suck. I know I’m no better than having your grace, but. I dunno. I didn’t want you to look at me and realize that.”

“You’re better than having my grace,” Cas insists, grabbing Dean’s arm, pulling him toward himself. “Infinitely better.”

Dean’s lips twist into a wry smile. “I thought that you didn’t think it was worth it. That’s why I was upset. I don’t blame you for doing what you did, though. Saving me, I mean. Not even for a second.”

“I shouldn’t have left you to think that,” Cas chokes out. “I shouldn’t have—”

“It’s okay.” Dean pulls Cas to him, against his chest. “It’s okay, Cas.”

“I still feel like I’m nothing without my grace,” he says. “I’ll probably always feel like that… in the back of mind.”

“Well, you’re not.” He takes Cas’ face in his hands. “You’re everything, okay? You’ll always be everything.”

Cas turns his face away; feels like he can’t take it.

“And I’m going to spend every day trying to convince your dumb ass that it’s true,” Dean adds with a few kisses to Cas’ cheeks. “Okay?”

Cas shakes his head. “How can you even stand to look at me, Dean? Or even forgive me. That note…”

Dean’s face hardens. “Would you stop bringing up that damn note?”

“You carried it around with you all the while I was gone, Dean. Don’t pretend that it didn’t hurt you, irrevocably—”

“Jesus.” Dean pushes the covers back, a whoosh of air sneaking into the bed. Cas shivers from the cold. He watches Dean stomp over to his jeans lying on the back of an armchair.

“Dean—” Cas starts. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to yell. I’m just—”

Dean fishes a worn piece of paper out of his pocket. He holds it high in the air, snapping it with emphasis. “This note, right?”

Cas nods miserably. “I didn’t mean…”

He cuts off when Dean promptly rips the note in half. Cas watches, mouth agape, as Dean tears it into smaller and smaller pieces until it’s just shredded paper. Scattering it on the ground, Dean dramatically brushes his hands against each other and walks back to the bed.

“So, what note?” he asks, getting back into bed.

“Dean,” Cas huffs, “you can’t just rip it up and pretend it never happened.”

“Cas.” Dean takes a breath before he continues. “I carried around that damn note all year just to remind myself how little I was worth it in exchange for losing your grace. I carried it around like a damn trophy, like it somehow proved everything my dad ever said to me: that I wasn’t worth a dime, or any sacrifice, or anything. That it proved that the future-you I saw in Zachariah's future hated me because you were human, or blamed me. But you know what? Fuck that note.”

“But the things I said—”

“They don’t matter now,” Dean says. He runs a hand through Cas’ hair. “I know you didn’t mean it. The past is the past, okay? And it’s shit. And I want to move forward with you.”

Cas feels something cracking, welling up in him. He pulls Dean toward him by the back of his neck and pushes his forehead against Dean’s. “Thank you.”

Because that had been the whole point, hadn’t it? Why Cas came back to Dean, why he put himself through it all again just to try to make it worth. To move on.

“Dean,” he says softly, tilting his face toward his. It’s enough for Dean to understand; he presses their lips together, tucking his arms against Cas’ back, pushes him into the bed.

Cas hitches a gasp when he feels Dean’s hands trail under his shirt, across the bare skin of his stomach. Dean says, close and lowly in his ear, “I kept thinking of what we would be if we weren’t faking, Cas. The whole week. Because it wasn’t fake for me—not for a goddamn minute.”

Cas runs his hands up and down Dean’s back, presses adoration into his skin. Waits for him to continue.

Dean says, his hands trailing to Cas’ sides, “I didn’t know if you felt the way I did until now, but—we could be happy, if we tried this. For real. It won’t be perfect. It’ll be downright awful sometimes. But the happy moments, they’re—they’re worth working through the crap. I see that now. I’m done hiding from it.”

“I won’t run again,” Cas promises with kisses against Dean’s warm neck.

That elicits a happy sigh from Dean. He pulls away; Cas’ hands instinctively grab his shirt, wanting to pull him back to him. “You know, there’s a memory we haven’t talked about yet,” Dean says.

Cas leans closer to Dean. His breath is hot on Dean’s cheek. “Which one is that?”

“The one where I tell you that I love your self-sacrificing and reckless ass.”

Cas grins. “I don’t think I remember that one.”

“Well, remind me to make that memory for you.”

If there’s a medical condition that makes your love for another person feel like your heart’s going to burst, then Cas knows he has it. He trails a finger across Dean’s forehead; cups his cheek. “I really do love you, you know,” he says.

Dean’s face breaks into a smile. “You’re going to be the honest-to-God death of me,” he whispers as he pulls Cas’ shirt from his skin.

 

* * *

 

Sam is fighting with the coffee machine when Cas ascends the stairs. He’s smacking a hand against the black plastic, muttering a curse.

“It takes a minute,” Cas says, scraping the bar stool across the floor.

Sam turns with a wry grin. “I’m used to the one in the bunker. Dean maintains it so well, there’s never a problem.”

Sitting at the kitchen counter, Cas nods. “Dean’s good at taking care of things in the bunker.”

The coffee pot sputters behind them; Sam lets out a joyous noise and turns to watch the coffee drip into the pot. He pours the liquid into two coffee mugs before it has a chance to finish.

“I didn’t expect you up this early,” Sam says, replacing the coffee pot.

Cas lifts his shoulders in a shrug. “I find myself becoming more used to the mornings, the longer I’m human.”

“That’s good.” Sam slides one of the full mugs across the counter to Cas. “I remember you being an absolute bear in the mornings at the bunker.”

Cas sips his coffee. “I recall.”

Drumming his fingers against the counter, Sam nods. He takes a swig of his coffee. “So.”

“So,” Cas repeats.

“How are you, really?”

Under the scrutiny of Sam’s stare, Cas admits, “This week… has been a lot. Fighting Faith took a lot. I’m worried about what her psychic draining did to me in the long term.”

“Ah.” Sam sips his coffee; sucks at his teeth. “I don’t think you need to worry about it. I finally figured out what she was. Found an obscure blog post about someone who apparently hooked up with one of her kind? I dunno, he was rambling but the situation sounded the same.”

“And?”

“And I cross-referenced the blog post and found a website deeply encrypted. I had Charlie hack into it; turns out it was a chat room for people like Faith. Where to kill, what places were compromised, things like that.”

“And what are they?” Cas asks.

“They called themselves solusphagus.”

“‘Lone-eater’?” Cas translates with a frown.

“Yeah. Either meaning they eat alone or, what I think is more likely, that they mean they eat loneliness. It’s weird, I know.”

Cas shrugs. “Faith mentioned it. That she was attracted to… isolated people.”

“There were more than 50 people in the chat room,” Sam says, “but we know how to spot them now, what to look for. And how to kill them. I’ve been contacting whatever hunters I can and spreading the word.”

“Well.” Cas picks at his fingernails; there’s still blood underneath them. “At least it’s confirmed why she targeted me.”

Sam gives him a frown. “Hey, that may have been the case before. But not anymore, right?”

Looking down at the dregs of his coffee, Cas tries to push back a smile as a very loved, very fulfilling figure comes into his head. “I suppose not.”

Sam clears his throat. “Are you…” Cas looks up at him questioningly. Sam rubs at the back of his neck. “With the two cars—I don’t mind driving your Buick back to the bunker, you know.”

Cas calmly takes a small sip.“That would be fine.”

With a jerky nod, Sam smiles widely. “Oh. That’s great news. I mean, uh, Cas, that’s—that’s good. Great.”

“Great,” Cas agrees with a smile over the rim of his mug. He knocks the counter with his knuckles when a thought occurs to him. “Oh, I have something…” He shuffles off his chair, quickly walking to the couch. Grabbing his backpack and fishing out _Walden_ , he brings it back to the counter and sets it in front of Sam. “In case you were wondering where it went.”

Touching the spine, Sam grins. “But I gave this to you, Cas. It was a gift.”

“Yes, to read. But I want to apologize for taking it with me.”

Sam waves a hand in the air dismissively. “It’s yours. Don’t worry. You probably got more out of it than I ever would.”

“It did help. To… understand things.”

“Well, good.”

Adjusting himself in the stool, he clears his throat. “I keep getting drawn back to one passage in particular,” Cas says. “‘The cost of a thing is the amount of what I call life which is required to be exchanged for it, immediately or in the long run.’ If you remember that quote.”

Sam nods, taking a sip of his coffee. “Yeah, I remember that one. You asked about it at the bridge, remember?”

Cas blinks; withholds a grimace. He tries to forget the bridge. “Oh. Yeah.”

With a sympathetic smile, Sam says, “I think I figured out what it means, though. That the value of something is determined by what you pay for it.”

“Yes.” Cas’ eyes fixate on the green of the book’s cover. “That passage in particular… helped me see clarity. After I left, I… read that passage countless times.”

Sam nods. “I see.” He looks like he’s about to ask Cas to explain.

They both turn their heads to the sound of Dean stumbling down the stairs. His hair is sticking up and he’s blearily rubbing his eyes.

“Good morning, sleepyhead,” Sam scoffs.

Dean yawns dramatically and stretches his arms upward. He opens an eye to glare at his brother. “Morning to you, bitch.” He kisses the top of Cas’ head as he walks toward the fridge. “Anyone make breakfast yet?”

“We were waiting for you to do it,” Cas says.

Dean shakes his head. “You two would starve without me.” He snatches Sam’s coffee from his unsuspecting hands and winks at Cas before turning toward the stove.

Cas’ eyes trail Dean as he cracks eggs into a bowl, whipping them expertly. He realizes that he’s not controlling his face, probably has an obviously adoring look on his face when he sees Sam is staring at him with a grin.

Instead of any anticipated teasing, Sam asks, “No cost too high?”, with a knowing smile.

Cas looks at Dean’s back. Dean’s whistling a tune now, pushing eggs in the pan, swaying back and forth. There’s a lightness in Cas’ chest as he watches the rising sun streaming through the window catch Dean’s hair, giving it an auburn shimmer.

“No cost too high,” Cas agrees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, this is the end. 
> 
> but not THE end. because i'm going to keep writing dean/cas in the future as long as my dumb little fingers will let me. 
> 
> i cannot even begin to describe how grateful i am that you all read, subscribed, followed, and commented on this story. it means the absolute world and fuels me as a writer.
> 
> if you subscribe to my ao3, there will be PLENTY more destiel fic where this came from. promise;)  
> (mostly, because my graduate degree is ending, and currently jobless, so this'll be the only thing i do all day for a while)
> 
> in summary: watch this space:) 
> 
> love you all; till next time <3
> 
> also, [here's the tumblr reblog](https://wanderingcas.tumblr.com/post/184170098399/now-complete-title-the-cost-of-a-thing-pairing), if you wanna spread around this fic for whatever reason


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